Harbingers of Beatrice
by Holly4
Summary: Complete! Wolfram and Hart attempts to restructure the Order of Aurelius, one vampire at a time. A soul hampers one, a chip harbors another, and a Slayer stands between them. The pawns are in place; it is simply a matter of who will move first.
1. Prologue

A/N: I've been kicking this idea around for a while, namely since I had my _Angel: Season Two _fest directly after it came out.  (I've consequentially had a few theories centering on the Wolfram and Hart v. Angel debate, and why they simply didn't remove his soul the hard way if that was their motive…which led to the birth of this story) This is the first _true_ BtVS/AtS crossover series that I've done, and I won't lie—it's been a blast so far.

The story is definitely Spuffy centered; I have not, by any means, had my share of the 'ship.  But I'm experimenting now with different ideas based on relatively the same premise, if that makes any sense.  On that note, the first of the Angel-centric chapters do have dialogue/segments stolen from the episodes that coincide with the area of the season I decided to focus on.  

I owe a big, _big _thanks to my good friend, Kimmie, for both nagging me to write this and serving as my beta.  

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: _After discovering Riley's nightly excursions to a vampire brothel, he and Buffy engage in a heated argument that results in his leaving Sunnydale.  Willow and Anya come to terms with their disagreements after an encounter with Olaf the Troll, and Spike goes to even further extremes to highlight his inner humanitarian.

_Previously on Angel the Series: _After Angel refuses to sire a dying Darla, Wolfram and Hart contract Drusilla to do the job for them.  Holland Manners, Division Head of Special Projects, mistakenly offers Darla a massacre as he and the rest of team celebrate having their true project distracted for the time being.

Harbingers of Beatrice

Author: Holly (hangingavarice@hotmail.com)

Rating: R (For language, violence, and adult content)

Distribution: Sure.  Just tell me where.

Timeline: Season 5 of BtVS: AU after _Triangle.  _Season 2 of AtS: AU after _Reunion._

Summary:  Wolfram and Hart, host of the greatest evil acknowledged on Earth, attempts to restructure the Order of Aurelius, one vampire at a time.  A soul hampers one, a chip harbors another, and a Slayer stands between them.  The pawns are in place; it is simply a matter of who will move first.

Disclaimer:  The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon.  They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit.  No copyright infringement is intended.  

Prologue 

Dream A Little Dream 

Angel dreamed.

A vast array of images, shapes, and colors blurred into one distorted picture of fragmented reality.  Tastes of things he could almost see, the feel of what he could nearly reach.  And all through it, she was there.  There to laugh and mock.  There to remind him of what he wanted, even if it was not within his hindsight.  There as a consistency in his inconsistent world.  It was a place he could not fathom—a place he needed to be but dreaded beyond all compare.  A place within his psyche that he feared more than any truth he had ever thought to explore.

And she was there.  Coaxing him, coddling him, whispering little nasties boding to how good it would feel if he gave in.

He wanted to give in.  He wanted to so badly.

But he wouldn't, because he was just.  And that was the way things were.

Angel dreamed.  

*~*~*

Buffy dreamed.

There was nothing distinct or particularly memorable about what she saw; no lingering difference between every other monstrous thing that had haunted her nightly excursions.  Dreams could never be taken lightly—always poised, dissected, and translated to interpret a possible coming of apocalyptic proportion.  

She saw monsters, blood, and fangs.  She saw herself turning a second time only to find another endless hallway.  She saw a great grandfather clock that amounted its hours with ethereal chimes and a ticking that would never end.  She saw her sister—a sister?  She didn't have one of those.  Wasn't supposed to.  It wasn't right.  

Dawn.  Not real.  She wasn't real.  She never had been.

Only she was. And she was the Key.  She was human.  She was real.  She was the Key.  She was what stood between now and eternity.  Her survival, her protection, was what the world—what the universe—depended on for continued existence.  She was real.  She was her sister.  She was Dawn.

The ticking would not end.

Beating the clock.  That was what life had amounted to.  Beating the clock.  Racing endless hallways, knowing despite how fast she ran, she would always be too late.  There was no absolution that could change that.  There was nothing.

The ticking would not end.

Buffy dreamed.

*~*~*

William the Bloody dreamed.

_Spike _dreamed.  

Aspirations.  That was all his existence had amounted to.  Aspirations of what he wanted, what he craved, what he saw with every blink, what he yearned for with every breath he didn't breathe.   Wanting, desiring, craving the enemy.  The vision of what would always be just out of his reach.  

It wasn't supposed to be this way.  Not for him.  No substitution for technology could change that.  He felt it with every drive.  With every surge that empowered his body.  The thrill, the taste of what he was.  What he always had been, in some regard or another, what always would be.  The monster.  A thing that craved—anticipated—church collapses like no creature before him.  He had killed.  He wished he still could.  He had torn the still-beating heart of many a virgin.  He had stalked the shadows until the dark shriveled its cowardice.  For over a century, he had torn the world apart, and enjoyed every minute of it.

And here he was.  Negating his own nature.  Everything he had always believed himself to be.  A Slayer of Slayers.  A vampire of his own creation.  Of his coveted reputation.  A demon.  A monster.  A creature of the night.

He was a being of evil, and yet with every minute he suffered, he wanted her.  Saw her.  Bloody well needed her.

Needed the _Slayer._

Perversion in the worst form of the word.

Knowing that despite he would never have what he wanted.  Because of what he was.  Because of what _she _was.

Because it was wrong.  

But that didn't mean the dreams would stop.  It didn't mean he would ever reach what he desired.  It didn't mean he would reach his much-needed rest.

Because of her.

The Slayer.

Buffy.

Spike dreamed.

**To be continued in Chapter One: _The City That Slept…_**


	2. The City That Slept

Chapter One  The City That Slept 

It had begun a week ago: the changes.  Changes small enough to at first escape notice before slowly compiling in severity and disclosure.  Little things with catastrophic results.  

Of course, that assumption wasn't entirely fair.  The changes had likely been occurring for months and had remained small enough to escape notice.  They weren't small anymore.  Oh no.  With a character makeover of such magnitude on the drawing lines of reasonability, the smallest indiscretions could not escape unreported.  He claimed that he was fine, that they were driving him up the wall, and that he in no way required outside support.

He was wrong.  He knew it.  They knew it.  But there was nothing that could be done.   No truth that he was willing to adhere.  The baby steps were over, the warning phase had passed.  Their time for intervention called to a deadly halt because of insecurities.  He knew it was coming but didn't care.  Couldn't make himself care.  In a random bout of digression, he pictured them seated uncomfortably in the Hyperion lobby, flipping through books that did more to pass the time than an actual time machine would allow.  Waiting for him.  Waiting for an update.  Waiting until he broke so that they might stop him from traveling further down the pathway he was teetering on the edge of exploring.  

It was slow.  It was tedious.  And it was accomplishing nothing but mount tension to already uncomfortable levels.  

What was worse: the city of Los Angeles slept.

The city slept when he could not.  The city turned its back on its priorities when he could not.  The city allowed evil to fester and brew when he could not.  The city looked the other way and he could not.

If he allowed himself to act like the city, the city would suffer.  And despite all its shortcomings, no measure of apathy could merit such punishment.

And he could not let that happen.  Which, in effect, was likely what sent him smashing through the top story window of the Law Offices of Wolfram and Hart, directly linked to his one sure-tie with the ultimate package: Lindsey McDonald.

Surprise was not a reaction that was running in leaps and bounds.  Overall, besides a brief lapse of generalized wonder, his overly dramatic entrance was all for not.  But that was beside the point.  Angel saw his query and moved, not interested in the squabbling of those around him.  In two seconds flat, he had Lindsey by the scruff of the collar and was an instant away from flashing his incisors.  "Dru and Darla," he hissed.  "Where are they?"

There were many men who would have pissed themselves in a similar situation, but Lindsey was not one of them.  Despite everything that had given him motivation in the past, he didn't even bat an eyelash.

And for the moment there was nothing that Angel found more irritating.

Intervention.  A calm voice reverberated from behind, and the vampire quickly corrected himself.  No, in such situations, civilized conversation was nothing he could endorse.  And yet, he didn't turn.  He held Lindsey still.  Tight, firm, and uncompromising.  Such was a man pushed to the edge.  It was time these lawyers learned firsthand with whom they were dealing.

"Angel," the man behind greeted, shifting.  The vampire knew without looking that he had extended a hand in a mock semblance of camaraderie.  "I don't believe we've had the pleasure.  Holland Manners."

Angel's mouth quirked a bit.  "I'd be careful who you offer that hand to, Mr. Manners.  You might lose it."  He broke out into a purely sadistic smile—and though it lasted only a fracture of second, it achieved purpose.  The being in his grasp final shivered a beat of palpable fear.  Granted it was only a beat, but it was enough.  "Isn't that right, Lindsey?"

Blazing.  To his credit, the lawyer snatched the line and pulled his captor in with him.  "There are worst things to lose, aren't there?"

That was it.  Angel shoved him to the wall and pivoted sharply to address the other.  Despite his near-painful distaste for Lindsey McDonald, his senses would not allow him to squander an opportunity for answers based on foolishness.  There was nothing to be gotten by a man smitten.  And Lindsey was most definitely smitten.  His desire for Darla was all but written across his forehead in big block letters.  He wouldn't be giving anything up, especially for the sake of an ill-gotten grudge.

Chances were, his superior wouldn't betray anything, either.  But he had to try.  By God, he had to try.  "So," the vampire drawled appraisingly.  "You're the one pulling the strings around here?"

Holland Manners, upon first glance, was hardly a man that struck fear into anyone's heart.  He stood promptly, business-like, with a small smile that looked to be nearly implanted on his mouth.  The pleasantness that reeked from his tone spread similarly through every thread he wore, and he appeared very much the proud father of his recuperating protégé.  The look on his face was agreeably disarming, and Angel did not share his sentiment.  "A few of them," the man conceded.  "I am Division Head of Special Projects."

There was not one part of that sentence that he liked.  "Special projects like Darla?"

The smile on Manners's face remained candor; the sort of taste that betrayed itself as chocolate laced with poison.  Had he been anything but human, he would have found his head ripped off his shoulders.  He was already treading dangerously close to the proverbial border as it was.  "Oh, Darla's just a tool," he explained good-naturedly.  "Means to an end.  You're the project."

For a minute thereafter, it seemed that he intended to put that promise to good use.  The office doors opened and the trained personnel that dealt with unwanted vampiric visitors piled inward—complete with rifles that housed stakes as makeshift bayonets.  Angel didn't move, didn't flinch—betrayed nothing that would suggest concern.  His gaze remained resolutely trained on the self-proclaimed Division Head of Special Projects, daring the other man to blink.  "I can crush the life out of you before they even lift a finger," the vampire informed him gently.

Holland simply continued to smile.  "Oh, I'm sure you can.  But you won't."

"Won't I?"

"You don't kill humans."

Angel's eyes blazed.  "You don't qualify.  You set things in motion, play your little games up here in your glass and chrome tower, and people die.  Innocent people die."

Manners's gaze twinkled in turn, and he leaned forward a fracture of an inch.  "And yet, I just can't seem to care."  Another blinding smile.  The vampire remained expressionless.  "But you do.  And while you're making threats, wasting time, smashing windows, your girls are out painting the town red, red, red."

"Where?" Not that he truly expected an answer, but it never hurt to ask.

"Well, that would be telling.  In any case, you might want to hurry."  Holland's voice changed just a note, at last allowing the first notes of threat to whisper through.  It was near imperceptible, but there nonetheless.  "So many lives in the balance, waiting for their champion to save them."

Angel glanced inquisitively to one of the bayonets.  "Mhmm.  As if you're just gonna let me walk out of here, huh?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," Holland informed him conversationally.  "You misunderstand us, Angel.  We don't want you dead.  Yet.  If we did, you wouldn't be standing here."  He pivoted jovially to the security team.  "Would you please escort our guest out of the building?" There was unnecessary emphasis on _guest.  _Manners turned back to the vampire.  "I would walk you out myself, but I'm running a little late for a wine tasting at my home.

"And," he added after he had turned to leave, acting out a poorly executed afterthought.  "Just so we're clear on the matter, you're not invited."

With as little as Holland seemed to care about the intruder's maintenance, Lindsey McDonald was all the more anxious.  He followed the team down the halls, made inane commentary to sustain the elevator ride, and was all but skipping when the familiar flicker of red and blue greeted them on the street.  Angel wanted to rip his spleen out, and was either very fortunate or cheated to be detained.

"I'll send you a bill for the window and the shirt," the lawyer offered cheekily, briefly gesturing to the torn fabric that draped half-shredded across his chest.

Angel didn't miss a beat.  "Yeah, you do that," he agreed, not reacting as he was manhandled and cuffed.  "And after I stop Darla and Dru, I might come back and pay you in person."

"Yeah," Lindsey returned, "go do your little champion thing and then come back and see me…if you make bail."  He turned to the men in uniform, spirits rising with every beat.  "Give him a nice holding cell, officers.  With a window.  Southern exposure preferred."  He didn't even look to see if his whimsical request was heard, much less registered.  "The firm might not want you dead…but I'm cool with it."

And that was it.  A matter of time now.  Time and cunning.  More time wasted while lives tangled in a tantalizing view of what could be as opposed to what was.  Darla and Drusilla, ripping everyone that crossed their path apart.  There was no telling what would be done by the time all was said and done.  Drusilla's black imagination.  Darla's requited bloodlust.  Too much balancing the scales.  Wolfram and Hart had all the pieces.  And now his true family was out there—dancing through the town.  Doing something he could not, despite the calling of his inner demon.  They were networking him slowly.  Patching into something darker than either could even begin to imagine.  

If they kept asking for Angelus, he feared they might get him.

Time and cunning.  Right now playing by man's laws.  Man's laws in their perfect society where the big uglies did not exist.

There was a familiar presence nearby.  Kate Lockley was beside him.

In a patrol car.

"Perfect," he murmured.

Time wasting.  Darla and Drusilla engaging Los Angeles as their personal playground.  Wolfram and Hart.  Always back to Wolfram and Hart.

Fucking perfect.

*~*~*

The atmosphere in Lindsey's office had changed very little in the course of ten minutes.  Despite his notable schedule, Holland had yet to vacate the building and tend to the aforementioned personal matters.  He waited the same candied patience that he had begun to expect from all the advisees under his wing until sending them off into the big bad world.  Not irritated at tardiness, but not encouraging.  The man could make anything seem like a burden.  It was his prestige and reputation—incomparable to anything else.

It was sort of impossible to get bigger and badder than Wolfram and Hart.

Holland glanced up expectantly as Lindsey stopped in the doorway, knowing better than to enter uninvited, even if it was his office.

"And how is our friend?"

"The police won't keep him long."

Manners smiled.  "Long enough, let's hope.  Ms. Yuell was kind enough to inform me that the mage arrived ten minutes ago."

Lindsey's brows perked.  He took that as enough motivation to enter completely.  "Did he?"

"Mages are impeccably punctual."  He spoke as though he considered it universal knowledge.  One never knew with Holland.

"Will he require our presence during the ritual?"

"No, no.  Our guest has means that have no concern of our digression."  The elder pivoted sharply, hands displayed in a prim criss-cross behind him.  "Are you excited, Lindsey?  Surely you can appreciate the leap we are about to take."

McDonald's lips quirked.  He was halfway tempted to ask his superior not to call him Shirley, but somehow assumed that his humor would be wasted.  "Yes sir," he retorted instead.  "The Order of Aurelius will serve as a very powerful asset."

"Only Angelus does not make the Order complete."  That came from the doorway, where Lilah Morgan's shadow haunted the light in a measure of admittedly intimidating authority.  For a woman so on the outs with her status, she portrayed more confidence than even she knew at times.  "According to our files, the youngest member of the Order is still alive…well, not _alive, _I suppose, if you're a purist for terminology."

Holland smiled agreeably.  "Lilah.  So kind of you to join us."

She did not even bother to nod in acknowledgement—an oddity for someone always on the prowl for advancement.  It was nearly criminal to allow a superior such as Holland to go unnoted, and she was likely one of the few who could get away with it.  "William the Bloody, circa 1880, sired by Drusilla and 'raised', so to speak, by our man himself."

"Ah, yes.  William the Bloody." The elder was still smiling promptly.  "Goes by another name now, does he not?"

"Adapted a nickname a brief time following his siring," Lilah verified.  "Took a while to catch, but I managed to dig it out of our more ambiguous files.  He's called himself _Spike _for over a century now.  According to his most recent activities—with the added assistance of a few government files that fell into our possession—have centered around his hunting and killing his kind in our neighboring Hellmouth."

"Sunnydale," Lindsey supplied, even as it remained wholly unnecessary.

"Last year, a chip was planted in the subject's head by a since-allegedly disbanded group of special-ops called the Initiative," Lilah continued, not reacting to the interruption with even a blink.  It was widespread knowledge that Sunnydale was the reputed home of the Big Bads.  "There have been rumors to support a restoration of said committee in South America, but nothing concrete has reached our intelligence.  The subject, known to the Initiative as Hostile Seventeen, works as a sort of demonic neutralizer."     

"Meaning?"

Lindsey received a dirty look for his ignorance.

"He can't attack humans, or harm them in any way without receiving an intense neurological shock."  She paused for effect.  "His handicap has rendered him a more or less participant in the Hellmouth's struggle against their various local scares."

"What is the less, might I ask?" Holland Manners never asked a question.  His modus operandi centered on the polite demand.

"As you can imagine, the demon community hasn't responded well to the subject's change of alliance, though his actions can be mostly attributed to monetary compensation."  She stopped again, signifying the end in her own voiceless accord.  "William the Bloody would be a powerful benefit to the firm, given what I found in my reading.  Aside completing the remaining and, more importantly, most acknowledged members of the Order, he has also killed two Slayers in his time, exhibiting cunning and strength.  Recruiting him would give us an unspeakable advantage."

At that, Lindsey stepped forward.  Even though the question sounded insidious on his tongue, he felt the need to ask.  "Recruit him to do what?  Throw rocks at our adversaries?"

"Wolfram and Hart has the means required to cure the subject of unwanted side-effects."  Lilah smirked, and unlike Holland, it wasn't pleasant.  Nor did she pretend it was.  "I believe you knew that.  Besides, our two boys aren't exactly known for getting along.  Should Angelus's contract with the firm stand on shaky ground, it would be handy to have someone of such persuasion at our disposal."

Holland smiled once more, though he now seemed genuinely pleased.  That wasn't something many could say.  "Very good, Lilah," he commended.  "Perhaps after Angelus and Darla have become reacquainted, we can send a team to Sunnydale and collect our commodity."

Ah, a loophole.  Lindsey loved loopholes, especially when the readily available solution waved in his favor.  "If I may," he intervened sharply.  "I believe that it might be more beneficial in the department of influence if someone he is familiar—even comfortable—with is the one to extend the invitation.  According to _my _reading, he was involved with Drusilla for well over a century.  Perhaps she would serve as the greatest means of persuasion."

"Excellent observation," Manners commented.  "Yes.  I believe we should do that immediately."

"And Darla should go with her."

A still beat rang through the office.

"Drusilla is a loose cannon," he explained.  "If this project is as important as Lilah is insinuating, its success will depend on its players.  Drusilla will search for fun, but Darla will be sure that the job is accomplished."

He didn't think it would be appropriate to add that he wanted Darla as far from Angelus as possible, if only briefly.

Had Holland noticed his digression—which he had to, as the personal aspirations of the Wolfram and Hart team were not kept secret—he did not make mention of it.  Lindsey's infatuation with Darla was practically commonplace, and the last thing he needed was the reemergence of her old flame in the full sense of the term.

Personal interest went consequentially ignored.

"All very well," the elder said cordially.  "Yes.  As soon as all is settled, we will send Darla and Drusilla to Sunnydale to collect the last member of the Order.  I do wish it could be sooner, but Angelus's addition to the fold will require a period of adjustment.  After we have Spike in our possession, we will see him into neurological surgery to remove his…dilemma."

Lilah shifted uneasily.  "What about the Slayer?"

"Ms. Summers?"

"According to our research, the subject has been working alongside the Slayer for the length of his condition."

"Voluntarily?" Lindsey asked.  Knowing Angel's previous disposition where Buffy Summers was concerned, it would positively kill him if another someone—another undead someone—had managed to wheedle his way into her heart.  It was a long shot, but those were known on the occasion to receive the coveted slam-dunk.

"No.  I believe I mentioned that he works in turn for money," Lilah replied.  "But you forget this particular Slayer has a likeness for forming bonds with vampires, our residential soulboy acting as a case in point."

Holland's lips pursed thoughtfully.  "Yes, this does deserve some consideration.  Ms. Summers is the longest surviving Slayer in history, am I right?"

"The third," Lilah corrected.

"Splendid.  This might well work to our benefit.  If things with the mage do not proceed as well as hoped, we can resort to more…primal means to extracting Angel's soul."

Lindsey fought off the temptation to roll his eyes.  "What are you going to do?" he muttered irately.  "Lock them naked in a room and play Barry White until they can't help but screw?  Angel might not be a model for self-restraint, but I would think that a vampire of his reputation would have the means to ignore some of life's more frivolous temptations."

Holland was not amused.  "I do not appreciate that sort of humor."

"Good idea, though," Lilah added with a smirk.

"Oh, come on.  Angel knows his limitations.  He wouldn't dare."

"I do not anticipate requiring the…shall we say, services of the Slayer in this matter.  The mage is highly skilled in such forms of retraction."  Manners's smile returned easily, all negative melodrama aside.  "Darla and Drusilla will collect the Slayer on their trip."

"Are you expecting her to just…" Lindsey gestured emphatically, "go along because our girls ask nicely?"

Lilah snickered.

"Don't be silly.  I would never presume to ask the girls to play by the rules."  Holland's leer intensified.  "And certainly a Slayer that has survived this long would not be taken of her own will.  Oh no.  I foresee a great amount of force in obtaining what we want.  And as you know, such endeavors have never troubled our firm."

Lindsey glanced down.  There wasn't much that troubled the firm at all, the murder of innocent children notwithstanding.  The familiar growth of distaste that had birthed the year before took a drastic leap forward.  "Of course."

"Now then," Holland concluded with a chipper note.  "We best be off.  Wouldn't want to leave our guests waiting."

"No," he agreed.  "We wouldn't want that."

There were many things he was finding himself not to want.

Not that it mattered, of course.  The project was everything.  Morality be damned.

The pieces were set, and it was time to move.

Checkmate.

*~*~*

An hour ago, no one would have seen this coming.

They hadn't made a move thus far—had done nothing but circle the expanse cellar several times, sprouting threats that weren't so empty.  Working the crowd like the sick prerequisite to the grand finale.  While the two vampires had done nothing more than compliment the ivory of Lilah Morgan's skin and address Holland in his infinite malpractice of offering them a massacre, there was no doubt behind their intention.  They were looking for a party, and by gum, they had found one.

Darla had stopped in front of Lindsey and was regarding him with an air of curiosity.  Of everyone present, he was the most indifferent.  He stood solemnly, watching her through hooded eyes.  It was most definitely not an exercise of ego.  He had resigned himself to his fate the minute they waltzed through the door.  No, it was something more.  Something unseen and yet comforting at the same time.  

Despite appearance, the blonde vampiress knew this.  She caught his calm exterior out of the corner of her eye and discarded whatever she had said to Holland—something about being able to sense the fear clouding the atmosphere.  And now she was approaching, body language hung with curiosity.  Not offended, merely ponderous.  Examining him as though he was the second coming.

"But not from you," she told him.  "Do you know what I'm getting from you, Lindsey?" She leaned inward, incisors extended and made as though she would like nothing more than to take a big chunk out of his throat.  But she didn't.  "Nothing.  Why aren't you afraid?"

How was he supposed to answer that when he didn't know, himself?  There was nothing to tell her that she couldn't estimate for her own conclusion.  Only that looking at her now, even as she bore her true face, he couldn't think of anywhere that he would rather be.  That likely made him either another sap-heart fool in love or out of his mind, but he wasn't too concerned with any moniker the others might give him.  The others wouldn't be around too much longer, as it was.  

"I don't know."

Darla's brows perked.  "You could die here," she informed him matter-of-factly.  "Chances are you will."

"I know."

"And you don't care."

"I care," he corrected her.  But that wasn't entirely true.  "I guess I just don't mind."

There was a laugh from behind.  Holland, smiling still to his credit, even it was weaker than anyone in his presence had ever seen, spread his hands diplomatically.  "No one is going to die here."  That seemed highly unlikely.  "This is just a friendly get-together amongst colleagues.  We're all on the same…" He drifted off when he became aware of the other—Drusilla—dancing behind him, peaking out from either angle of his perspective.  "…side."

The blonde vampire made as though nothing concerning negotiation had been mentioned, wistfully glancing around the chamber with a sigh.  "I love this room.  Dru, honey, in our new digs…" She pivoted sharply to join her companion, wrapping one arm around her grandchilde-made-sire and another around Holland.  "We _have _to get a people cellar."

However, it seemed the other vampire wasn't listening.  Her eyes had drifted, adapting the same blaze she spurned every time another vision of what had been or what would be attacked her hindsight.  "Something has changed," she said, tearing herself away.  Her arms crossed over her chest and she began to sway rhythmically to a song that no one could hear.  "He's calling.  Ohh…Daddy's home."

And while no one save her companion knew exactly how to read Drusilla's transgression, everyone seemingly understood what she said.

Because Angel had crowded the doorway.

Darla did not miss a beat.  She pivoted swiftly and flashed her former a smirk, extending the call of candor invitation.  If she noticed the void on his face, she did not make mention of it.  Angel had never been one for the active expressions—but he was emptier than ever.  Hollow.  As though the man that claimed to harbor his body was gone, and the demon had departed with him.

"Angelus.  Here for the tasting?"

"Look what we have for you," Drusilla said in offering.  She received no reaction, and her spirits fell on cue.  "It's not Daddy.  It's never Daddy."  She flashed her canines maliciously, a cold hiss ringing through the air.  "It's the Angel-beast."

Then something changed.  A smile born from nowhere, spreading across the dark vampire's face.  A smile that would never know life were Angel in vicinity.  A smile where there should be no smile.  

"Precious," he drawled, stepping inside.  "That is where you're wrong."

A still beat.  Lindsey didn't know exactly how to react.  He hadn't foreseen greeting Angelus's return with a smirk or a pat on the back, but at the moment, he wouldn't have traded anything for the front-row seat he had in viewing the expression on Holland's face.

Complete and utter disbelief.

"Angelus!" the other man hurried to greet.  "I'm so glad the mage reached you in time.  You see, Wolfram and Hart orchestrated your—"

"You've only started talking and I'm bored already," Angelus informed him stoutly.  His eyes, however, had not abandoned Darla's.  She was standing motionless, absolutely dumbfound.  It had to be shocking, of course.  Over a century had passed without seeing him at all.  And now, once more, déjà vu in the most extreme.  "What was that you said about a tasting, darling?" he asked with a grin.  The vampire was not one to savor a reaction that bordered anything but sorrow and outrage, but the look his maker was bearing was beyond priceless.  As though reason had been reintroduced—more of herself than she ever bargained letting anyone see.  "I gotta tell you, I don't think I've ever been this hungry."

Darla continued to stare.  

Then, slowly, she smiled.  

"Of course," she said, turning to Holland disinterestedly.  "Poor dear's been living on pig's blood for far too long.  I believe the least you can do is offer him a decent meal."

Drusilla was bounding up and down gleefully.  "Daddy!"

But Angelus didn't reply.  His human features melted to the more demonic persuasion, and he grinned at the old man's horror before lowering his mouth to his ear.  "Make a wish," he whispered.

Then bit down.

And drank.

**To be continued in Chapter Two: _Inside A Deep Ravine…_**


	3. Inside A Deep Ravine

**Chapter Two**

****

**Inside A Deep Ravine**

It was late, she was bored, and the demon population wasn't exactly working on the up to remedy any preset predicament.  Naturally, though, that was to be expected.  A line of tedium was nothing that locals attempted to correct.  Not until the pace picked up once more and everything settled into the norm of activity.

Slowness generally merited a bad, and it had been slow.

Very slow.

Granted, Buffy rationalized as she made her third uneventful sweep of Restfield Cemetery, only two days had passed since the trauma that was the big troll.  Silence in any regard was to be considered suspicious, but in truth, all might have amounted more to the spring of unnatural causes.  There had been nothing more from Glory, her mother seemed to be doing well, and Dawn, despite the noted badness that ensued wherever she went, had managed to keep out of trouble for forty-eight hours.

Logically, such grounds could only mean the impending apocalypse, but she tried to keep her thoughts positive.  

Which was most certainly of the impossible when there wasn't a demon in sight whose death would merit a nice little detour from the grim reality that was her life.  One little demon.  That was all she wanted for tonight.

Well, what she really wanted was to go home, soak, and open her eyes to the boyfriend that left when life became too real, but that wasn't happening.  And if she was honest, it wasn't entirely what she sought.  No.  The place Riley had in her heart was vacant, yes, but not unmanageable.  It hurt that it didn't hurt more than it did, and then it just hurt all over.  As though her non-indifference-but-close was enough to merit his leaving.  As though every nasty thing he said that indicated he wasn't enough for her was true.

She had known that, of course.  On some level buried under heaps and heaps of denial, she had known that.  

But he was Joe Normal.  He was what she was supposed to want.

Sometimes, like now, life sucked beyond the telling of it.

And there were no demons to take it out on.

Buffy sighed heavily.  There was no point in wasting a perfectly good chick-flick night wandering aimlessly around the cemeteries.  If badness wasn't going to come to her, she might as well go to badness.  There hadn't been a decent chick-flick to roll out of Hollywood in recent memory, and she had already seen all the others.  Another point to support why life as of the current was not working in her favor.

If Riley were here, they could spar.  Or make love.  Of course, neither one of those activities were entirely relaxing. Fighting Riley had always aggravated her because she couldn't unleash her everything and just be…her.  The Slayer.  She was always afraid she was going to hurt him.  Or break him.  And the other…their bedroom life the past year had gone seriously downhill. To his credit, he had started their physical relationship as a very attentive lover, but time progressed and the newness of their association waned.  And he became Joe Normal on a whole new plateau. 

His plateau, of course.  She never asked him to rectify her dissatisfaction.  Too afraid it would damage his precarious male ego.  Thus, Buffy had learned the art of something she had never suspected to need in any regard.  It wasn't as though there was a how-to course, and she certainly couldn't ask her mother.  

_"Mom…how do you fake an orgasm?"_

There was no way that conversation could lead anywhere of the good.  And either way, she had apparently been convincing.  Mimicking the scream that seemed identical to the one that had caused the Gentlemen's heads to explode.

And Riley never knew the difference.  He didn't notice the conversion from the real to the phony, and she never made reference to it.  Toward the end, she had even succumbed to lying to him as to not damage him more than she was already.  And it did hurt.  It hurt when it didn't hurt enough and it hurt that she was not giving him what he needed.  Because she knew that he loved her.  Despite everything else, he loved her.  And she had pushed him away because she didn't—she couldn't—feel the same.

It wasn't because he wasn't Angel, regardless of his own conviction.  God, if that wasn't the king of all revelations.  Angel wasn't what she wanted anymore.  From the few times that they had conversed since he abandoned her for Los Angeles, he had turned into someone she didn't know.  Naturally, there was a part of her that would always love him.  He had been her first, and no girl overcame her first great love.  It wasn't possible.  But she wasn't fool enough to believe that he was The One anymore.  And she had long ago conceded the fantasy where he came to his belated senses and rescued her from the woes of Slayerhood.

That would never happen.  She knew it now.  She had known it for a while.

But Angel wasn't the reason that she couldn't give Riley what he wanted.  And that was what bothered her.  On the surface, Riley had been everything _she _should reach for.  Want.  He wasn't.  And he never had been.

Whistler had been right all along.  In the end, it was only her.  And she reckoned that was the way it would be forever.  After all, what could a girl whose death was always licking her heels offer anyone?  A few good rolls in the sack, if that.  A hearty kiss farewell before—boom—massive deadness.

There were times that being the Slayer caught up with her.  To know what it meant was one thing; to truly understand was an entirely different matter.

A surprisingly cool breeze flitted through the cemetery and Buffy shivered, arms crossing self-consciously.  The night hummed around her, bringing all its creatures to life.

To life, but not within proximity.

That was when she heard the unmistakable signs of struggle sounding reasonably near.  And the Slayer's spirits heightened.  Perhaps the evening's hunt wouldn't be a total waste.

The scene upon arrival was not as encouraging as she had hoped.  Spike was beating the tar out of some newly risen fledgling, and apparently having a marvelous time doing so.  The grin on his face was ear-to-ear, the same she recognized out of unruly satisfaction.  

"Great," she pouted.  "The first vampire I've come across all night and he's spoken for."

The sound of her voice startled the platinum Cockney right out of his enjoyment, and he whirled wide-eyed in greeting.  It was odd seeing the cocky vampire suddenly flabbergasted at the simple additive of her presence.  "Buffy—"

Not good.  Stopping to talk to your mortal enemy during a fight was not a good.  "Spike!  You're—"

Too late.  Baby Vamp seized initiative and slammed him into the side of the nearest mausoleum, elbowing his nose and projecting his head into the stone with a bone-breaking crack.  That was all the excuse she needed—though most certainly not for Spike's welfare.  The stake she kept harbored up her sleeve slid easily into grasp, and Buffy hurled herself enthusiastically into the line of fire.

"Oi, Slayer!" the Cockney called begrudgingly, checking his nose for blood.  "You're not playin' with the full stack!  I saw him firs'!"

"Sorry, Bleach Boy," she retorted, words stressed between winds of exertion.  "Finders…keepers…"

There was a disgruntled mumble through the strains and pains of mediocre battle-skills.  She actually had to tone it down a bit to stretch this one out.  From earlier observation, it was evident that there would be no more fighting after this vamp bit the dust.  Bah.  The woes of slow nights.

It didn't last nearly as long as she would have liked.  All too soon, Buffy was staring at a fading cloud of dust, sighing to herself and replacing her stake where she kept it handy.  As an afterthought, she turned to Spike.  The way he was looking at her these days could fall under the file of disconcerting, but she didn't allow herself to give it much thought.  The peroxide pest was always up to something or other.  If she knew him half as well as she thought she did, she would be foiling some supremely retarded plan come the next two weeks or so.

But that wasn't it.  His eyes shone with something more than general and mutual distaste.  As though there was something there that hadn't existed before.  Thinking about it didn't do much for her complex, but it was mildly bothersome.  An ocean of blue that birthed an endless reflection of awe intertwined with old irritation.  

There was power there.  Power and something more.  

Nights like this, she hated the chip.  Not that she would ever admit it.  While killing him remained on her list of things to threat to do without doing, it was the furthest thing from any form of intention.  But she did wish they could go at it the way they used to.  Despite his notable flaws, he was the most worthy adversary she had ever faced.  She was so tired of fights she knew she could win.

It wasn't a matter of winning fights with Spike.  Oh no.  More dodging the bullet with every intention of coming closer to death at next rendezvous.  He could have killed her a thousand times over but hadn't.  She the same.  And she never allowed herself to consider why.

It was worth too many wiggins for additional thought.

"Bloody perfect," he muttered with seething irritation, dusting himself off appropriately.  "Y'know how long it took me to find a fresh one?"

"Hey, you're lucky I came along."

"To what?  Distract me?"  

"No…" Buffy frowned, jutting her lip out with endless indecision.  "Okay, okay.  So he was a baby vamp.  That didn't mean there wasn't a Spike-dustiness ending to this story in the loom."

He chuckled and shook his head.  "Even 'f that were the case, since when are you one to care, Slayer?"

"Since the days of my boredom have reduced me to contemplating ending your sorry existence if patrol doesn't pick up."

"That loses its swagger the more you say it.  You do know that, right?"

She sighed wantonly as they fell into a freakishly comfortable side-by-side stroll through the cemetery.  It was similarly on her list of things not to do, but she really wasn't in the mood to be wall-put-uppy Buffy tonight.  Chances of Spike slithering through being in name only, she figured her digression was forgivable.  "Yeah, yeah.  Well, I gotta say it.  You know.  To keep you in line."

"Right."  She didn't have to look at him to see his brows quirk, and it egged at her senses that she knew him so well. "'Cause it works like a bleedin' charm.  Cor, Slayer, you must really be bored."

"God, you have no idea.  The vamps are a no-go and have been on the side of avoidy for a couple nights."  She flexed her shoulders instinctively.  "That's forever in Buffy-years.  I've reduced myself to watching Jackie Chan films and pretending it's me kicking ass."

"After only two days?"  Spike shook his head again, reaching for his cigarettes with a chuckle.  "That is sad."

"Excuse me.  I believe your television schedule revolves around _Passions _and _Passions _reruns wherever you can catch them.  Don't lecture me on sad."

"Well, seein' as you're so close to losin' your marbles, I gotta say, 'm glad it was you who killed ole Henry back there."  When she appraised him with a curious look, he shrugged, lighter finding the end of his fag with a glowing hum and an appreciative intake of nicotine.  "Hank.  Harm told me 'bout 'im.  Got sired by some of her old lackeys.  The ones you din't off in the Rescue-The-Bit, Take Thirty-Five show down 'couple weeks back."

Rescuing Dawn from Harmony.  That had been before Riley left.

Grumble.

As if he sensed her digression, Spike stopped suddenly and pivoted to face her.  "Look," he said, "there's somethin' I've been meanin' to tell you.  Timin' never seemed right, an' honestly, I don' rightly know what there is to say.  Only that I gotta get it out there so you get me, right?"

The vampire had serious-face.  This was never good.  "Yeah, okay," she said slowly, feeling suddenly very self-conscious.  "What's the what?"

He shifted uncomfortably.  "'S about what 'appened last week…with Captain Cardboard an' the vamp brothel.  I jus'—"

Immediately, Buffy held up a hand and stepped back, an entirely too ill at ease look overwhelming her features.  "I really, really don't wanna talk about this."

He made a move to reach for her at her withdrawal and she bristled.  A sigh resounded through the air in turn, and he retracted his touch to his own platinum strands.  "Look, I don' wanna rub the salt in anythin' or what all.  Tha's not what I 'ave to say.  'S jus'…you need to hear this."

"I don't need to hear anything from you, Spike.  Ever."

There.  That was a bit more like herself.  Being nice to the Bleached Wonder always led to badness, especially if doors were left open along the way.  Who knew when he would seize initiative and leap into her bubble?  Spike preferred to make himself comfortable wherever it was inconvenient for others, and she was a specialty in such case.   

He was exceptionally talented at rubbing her the wrong way.

Especially nights like tonight.

"Yes you bloody do," he insisted, making another play for her wrist and whirling her around to face him.  For a beat, she wondered how or why she allowed him to get so close.  Her body itched with the need for another fight and she wondered if her Slayer senses would be satisfied if she popped him in the nose.  Somehow she doubted it, but it was nearly worth the experimentation.  Had he not looked to be the epitome of seriousness, she would have put the hypothesis to test.  "An' the sooner you accept that, the happier the lot of us'll be."  He observed her wearily, head cocked as those eyes she was so not noticing burned through the layers of her self-consciousness.  Why?  Why was he suddenly looking at her like that?  "Buffy, I din't take you there that night to hurt you, no matter how it mighta seemed."

At that, she rolled her eyes.  Since when did Spike care about hurting her?  Wasn't that his life's mission?  His prerogative?  It was in _her _general acceptance, thus she hadn't given it much thought.  Hearing him mention it like that was nearly laugh-worthy.  As though she had spent her nights cursing his name for ruining her—cough—_perfect _relationship.  "Right.  Because hurting the Slayer is nowhere near Spike's lot in life.  Or unlife.  Please.  I'm so not worrying with this now.  Goodnight."

"Not hurtin' the Slayer, you daft bint.  _You."  _She knew he hadn't meant to say it like that by the telling widening of his eyes and therefore ignored it.  There would be no revelations of the potential apocalypse-bringing sort tonight.  "'F I wanted to hurt you, you'd feel it.  I don' work that way, an' you know it."

He had a point there.  Spike hadn't resorted to striking so personally in a long while.  The day in the sun when he suggested that she wasn't worth a second go, and that remark was more to get back at her Drusilla-jibe of two night's earlier, she reckoned.  When the platinum vampire wanted to hurt, he hurt in the all-out sense.  He spoke big words, of course.  A recent evening rendezvous to the Bronze rang as proof enough of that, but anything more was too _Angelus _for either brazen level of comfort.

Time to go home.

"Right.  I get it."  She turned to leave again.

"You do not.  You're jus'—"

Buffy paused again with an aggravated sigh.  "Look, what happened, when I said I didn't wanna talk about it, I meant as in the really.  You're not exactly my ideal chatting partner, thus when I do open up, it definitely won't be to you.  But…" She stopped shortly, holding up a hand.  "What happened…it was…I'm glad I found out.  Even if it did hurt, I needed to know.  And yeah, I guess that's…it was important, despite your motive."

"My motive was to show, luv.  Nothin' more.  Din't figure you'd want your boy—"

"Again with the not chatty.  You've said your piece and I'm going home.  This is me dropping the subject.  Okay?"

He sulked a bit in manifest disappointment.  "Callin' quits already?  Come on, Slayer.  'm sure if we put our heads together an' tag-team this bloody two-bit town, we can find some action worth lookin' in on."

Buffy's eyes widened.  "Oh yeah.  Because my stealthy self couldn't pick up one tail, and this is sort've my calling.  But two of us, especially a notably loudmouthed bleached chip-head—right.  We'll be rolling in the vamps.  Stakes all around."

"You're a bloody riot."

"I do stand-up on the weekends."

"Better stick to your…" Spike trailed with a frown and threw a pointed, nearly accusing glance at the darkened sky.  "…night job."

She snickered.  "Not that I have a choice."

"Come on.  The night's young…'f you're a vamp or one who hunts vamps…which you are."  Her gaze sharpened at him skeptically, but he ignored her.  "Where's your sense of adventure?"  His eyes danced and he twitched slightly with unkempt excitement.  "There's nothin' you can do at home that you can't do out with me."

There was no way not to mask the initial thoughts that sprung to mind, bearing the thought that Xander and Anya were the people she spent most days with now that Riley was gone.  The ex-vengeance demon was especially keen at pointing out the variety of ways that she wanted the Slayer gone so that she might engage in sexcapades with her ever-attentive boyfriend.  Thus the image came unbidden, and her cheeks flushed rouge in turn.  When she hazarded a glance up and caught the smirk born proud on his lips, she knew begrudgingly that she had been caught in her digression.  It was infuriating how easily he read her.  There was no one else that had such a talent.  

Buffy the Ambiguity.  Buffy the Ambiguity to all save one William the Bloody.

Caught in wordless, heated embarrassment, the Slayer resorted to her last form of defense.  She tossed him a dirty glance and made to brush passed him.  In truth, it would have been more productive to forfeit one hearty swing and punch his eye out, but the notion never transpired.  It wasn't as though he was being purposefully annoying as was his custom.  He had made a harmless suggestion; she was the one who tainted it.

Just another testament to how breaking up was a bad thing.  Here she was chatting up Spike after she very deliberately told him that she would not, and hitting him had never occurred to her.

"Oh, don' gimme that look," Spike protested with a snicker.  "'S your perverted li'l mind that thought up whatever delicious dirty you're tryin' so hard to banish from hindsight."

Better to feign ignorance, even if it was ultimately superfluous.  "How did—"

His eyes narrowed and she shut up right quick.  "Saw your face.  That was enough.  An' I suspect there's more to it where that came from."  A sharp chuckle tickled the air when she turned even redder.  "There, there, Slayer.  We've all got our various…squicks."

"Get bent."

She pushed passed him furiously and started marching for home.  It was to little avail.  Spike fought to her side and kept up rather nicely, hands buried in the pockets of his billowing duster.  His lips attentively tended to the cigarette and she was somewhat disconcerted to how accepting she had become to the otherwise intrusive scent.  Smokers were nasty.  Smokers were not to be associated with…ever.  And yet, around Spike it was nearly expected.  As though he wasn't entirely there if he wasn't puffing away at something.  

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, and just as she was starting to debate the better odds and ends of staking him for good, his voice interrupted her musings.  "Are you sure…'bout the rest an' everythin'?  It got really nasty there at the end."

The Slayer felt a breath catch her in throat and went frigid.  "We're talking about Riley again?"

"I jus'…'f I'da known—"

"It hurt.  He ran away from us.  From our problems."  Buffy emitted a weary sigh and directed herself thoughtlessly to a headstone.  They hadn't even made it out of the cemetery.  Of course not.  Once more, it occurred to her that spilling her innermost thoughts and insecurities to the man previously dedicated to her demise was not of the good, but for tonight, she was tired of playing by the rules.  She was tired of so much.  It was late and he was here.  He was Spike, yes, and he was the proudly proclaimed bane of her existence, but some random voice within her psyche whispered that he would listen, and furthermore, that he would understand.  Talking to Xander was a no because he had been there at the end and seen everything that transpired.  He had given her the inspirational last speech about saving the one good thing in her life.  He would put on his sympathetic face, but he didn't truly feel sorry for her.

Willow was similarly a no.  When Oz walked out on her, it had ruined her completely.  It had ruined her on an Angel-leaving level.  Even Buffy couldn't remember grieving the loss of her _one true love _as much as the Witch had the departure of her first and only boyfriend.  For that, she couldn't talk to her friend.  Not for the changes the separating them: because Oz had meant more than Riley.  Willow had loved Oz.

Buffy had not loved Riley.  And she saw that now.

Spike was not exactly a yes, but he wasn't a no, either.  He was here and that was good enough.  And if he breathed a word to anyone, she could always shove something nice, wooden, and pointy through his chest.

Not that she would or anything.  The hinted promise of things she would never do was the only thing that could have persuaded her to continue.  And she needed to talk.  She needed it out there, even if it was her mortal enemy who was listening.  "Sometimes," she said softly.  "Sometimes I feel like…my problems.  Like something's wrong with—"

"Don' even finish that sentence."  The sound of his voice surprised her, as though, despite her acceptance, she had forgotten he was beside her.  For a second, it appeared that he was resisting the urge to reassure her with a touch.  He resisted well, were that the case.  "It wasn' you that made him go out for suck jobs."

"No, but I pushed him away.  I've been so focused on Mom and Dawn and—"

"The things you shoulda been focused on?" he suggested softly.  She didn't reply.  "Buffy, your mum jus' had a bloody serious operation.  'F you weren' there to be his snuggle-bunny, it was his fault for—"

"That's what I thought.  Apparently no one else did.  People seem to forget that I have every day slayage and Mom-taking-care-of and Dawn-sitting to tend to.  All at once, mind you!  Oh no, everyone's big on the 'it's Buffy's fault' train."  

"Everyone is wrong," Spike said gently.

"You can't know that."

"I do."  It was hard to contest a man who sounded so wholly certain, even if that man was a viciously notorious vampire with a mean streak that challenged the Nile in length and the expanse of North America in width.  Not to mention the total lack of patience.  There was probably a list somewhere that alphabetically categorized every nasty thing the Scourge of Europe had done or thought about doing, but while standing in his presence, such indiscriminate little nasties were so easy to forget.  Despite what she said, or how she claimed to understand.  "'S funny how li'l details slip your mind, Summers."  _Gee, wasn't I just thinking the same thing?  _"Like how I know Slayers on a whole pretty damn well."

Her eyes narrowed.  Then again, on other days, remembering what he was constituted as just another task on the get-ready list.  Right there between brush your teeth and floss.  "Yeah.  Need to know your enemy, right?"

It grew unpredictably quiet—blunt and nearly creepy, dismissing the entire archetypically selected scenery.  Sometimes the intensity of his eyes was simply too much.  Buffy never liked to credit Spike with surplus power, but there was no denying what he had at his disposal.  At his wake.  At his readily awaiting-thy-orders, master.  He was young for a vampire, all things considered.  But _God, _experience just rolled off his shoulders.  The places he had been.  The things he had seen.

_The people he's killed._

"'F that was the case," he was saying, and she had to struggle to remember what they had been talking about, "you woulda been six feet under a long time ago.  Not by me!" He stepped back before she could issue the accusation, hands flying up as though someone was holding him at gunpoint.  "'d never presume that, luv.  I fancy thinkin' I know you pretty well, but you 'ave the strangest way of takin' me out for a spin on the bloody tail-ends.  An' 'f I don' say so myself, the fact that I'm _still _tryin' to figure you out means all the better for you.  Your other local nasties'll never make it full circle.  You're an ambiguity, Buffy.  Lord help us all 'f someone ever gets to the core of _that _onion."

There was a moment of stillness that could not help but ensue in the general randomness that was being paid a compliment, an actual and—weird—heartfelt compliment by Spike.  Where had that come from?  She hated it when he did that.  When he acted as though he were all Average Joe going about his merry way.  As though he wasn't what he was.

It made it harder to hate him, and that was something Buffy enjoyed keeping filed under the Simple heading.  Hating Spike was supposed to be like breathing.  Natural.  Instinctual.  Basic.  He wasn't supposed to go all Vamp-Casanova with the bizarre compliments that came from nowhere and the imaginary _Lean On Me _soundtrack that was not playing in the background, even though it might as well have been. 

The words that escaped her, though, hardly followed through to conclusion.  Right now she was desperate for any sign that suggested what had happened to her, to her and Riley, to her and all her relationships was not entirely of her doing.  She was the Slayer, first and foremost, and she couldn't have the average life.  Including the average boyfriend.  It was nice that someone was acknowledging that.

Acknowledging _her _for what she was.

Even if that someone was Spike.

"Do you mean it?"

It grew unspeakably silent, and Buffy had known many silences.  Too many to recount.  Never one with the platinum vampire.  Spike had never had a quiet note in his life, especially where she was concerned.

He made as though to touch her but withdrew almost instantly, sensing the imminence of her protest.  She hadn't even realized it was there until she felt her voice stop in her throat.  There was no friendly touching where she and Spike were implicated.  There should be no touching period, but sometimes a punch here or there was of the necessary.

He was looking at her again.  "Yeh," he said finally.  Still quiet.  "I mean it.  Christ, Summers, you're near impossible to get close to.  I should know.  Tried foilin' everythin' you threw at me from day bloody one, an' that was three years ago.  You've outdone yourself.  An' whatever this new bitch has on you…wha's her name?"

"Glory."

"Right.  'F she knew what she was gettin' herself into, she'd be makin' tracks."  A smile tickled his lips as though he was proud.  "As it is, 'm sure you'll see that she gets her arse right an' properly kicked."

"What about you?"

"Me?  Oh, I'll be there.  Count on it.  Y'think I get my rocks off by watchin' from the sidelines?"

"That's not what I meant."

Spike paused and the world stopped with him.  "Oh?  Wha's that, then?"

The warning bell she had been ignoring strategically for the past fifteen minutes started blaring.  There was no part of this that could result in the area code of good.  The last time she let Spike this close, they had been under a spell and, well, doing anything but talking.  He didn't look to be expecting anything of her, but there was a line between them that could be crossed for no purpose.  She had placed it there long ago—separating herself from all things of the vampiric nature.  After Angelus.  After Angel left.  There was to be no amity between enemies.

Freakish space becoming an issue.

"I-I don't know."  Buffy frowned and stepped back.  "I've—uh—gotta be heading home."

The response was automatic.  The platinum vampire nodded and reinstated her unspoken need for distance.  "Right then.  Toddle on off.  'm sure your pals have gotten into some tragic accident without your supervision."

"Hey—"

"What's up with you, Summers?  You're all…I dunno…anxious."  He ran his tongue across his teeth, favoring her with a tantalizing leer.  "Not very becomin' to a Slayer.  'S it 'cause you've stepped down from your almighty horse?  Treatin' me like one of yours?  I'll admit 's a li'l disconcertin', but I'm not complainin'."

At that, she scoffed, indignant.  "Well, up until now, you were acting like a person.  Sorry for the lapse.  Sometimes I have to be reminded.  Trust me when I say that it won't—"

It took a minute to realize he had seized her arm; another to comprehend the sudden lack of what she had craved so desperately just a minute ago.  Distance.  There was none.  "I act like a person more than you like to notice.  Some words of wisdom, luv, keep your eyes open.  I might jus' surprise you."

_Step away.  Don't encourage him.  Go home like you should have the minute you saw his exceedingly annoying platinum head.  Don't encourage him._

"Is that so?"  

"More than your precious Scoobies, tha's for certain."  

"Spike, it's late, go home."

"An' especially now that the whelp's arm's all rot an' busted."  He ducked his head to smother a grin.  "Only Muck-For-Brains would pick a fight with a bloody troll."

Inherent defense swelled within her.  "He was defending the woman he loves!"

"Who happens to be a very prominent an' powerful ex-vengeance demon."

"She's…" There was nothing to say to contest that.  Two years prior, the very same troll-loving Anyanka was happily exacting pain and suffering on every vaguely male-shaped body she came across.  Humanity had certainly done a number on her, but when all the superfluous layers were peeled away, she was the same old Anya.  The murderous sort.  Nothing had happened to her that merited a variation of character.  

And yet, it didn't stop the words from drifting past her lips as though she truly believed them.  "She's changed."

"Hmmm…how stunningly original."

"She's not like that anymore."

"Oh, so she can be forced to adapt to the likes of your precious mortal coil, but yours truly is shunned from the crowd?"  Spike turned away with disgust and began a customary pace, unaware of her searing confusion.  "'S all right for those with a pulse to get a li'l sympathy an' compassion an' sodding _understanding _every now an' then, but when I go out of my bloody way to—"

"What the hell are you blabbing about?"

"You!  You an' the rest of you sodding do-gooders.  Treatin' me like the outed man when I 'aven't touched a nummy treat in over a year."

"But you would if your chip was removed."

Spike's brows arched.  "Oh, an' the former demon's so haughtily above it that she wouldn't go back to the carnage she so enjoyed 'f her wanker of a former boss came crawlin' back on his colossal hands an' knees to beg her return?  You forget, luv, Anya's killed a _helluva _lot more blokes than I 'ave, an' she enjoyed it every bit as much.  P'raps more.  What does it take to get in your good graces?"

"Since when have you wanted it?"

He shifted uncomfortably.  "Man's got eyes, doesn' he?  Your precious vamp-lovin' soldier's run off an' he's taken his militia men with 'im.  Way I figure it, I'm sorta stuck like this.  Might as well make the most."

"No.  No!  Don't be ridiculous.  You've made no small game about how very much you want us all dead."

"I guess your lovable demon-turned-pulser made the transition like that."  He snapped his fingers demonstratively.  "No attempts to regain her nasty streak?  Her powers?  Everythin' she'd been for the better of a thousand years an' more?  Please, Summers.  I've only been around for a fraction of the time Anya has, an' I bloody well know that—"

"We can't trust you."

"I'm not askin' you to trust me.  'm askin' you to cut me a li'l slack is all."

"Why should I?"

He blinked at her.  "'Cause I asked nicely?"

"I'm going home.  For real this time."

"Right.  You do that."

"I am."

And that was that.  With a haughty toss of her hair, the Slayer set off intently, relieved when he at last neglected to follow.  The counter already had her spiraling down a bizarre influx of otherworldly emotion that she wanted to ignore with every fiber of her being.  It had already been a long night, and granted the mass amount of consideration she was now being asked to take, it looked to be at the start rather than its finish.

Yet she couldn't leave it at that.  It didn't seem right.  Forces beyond her control persuaded her to turn once more.  And he was there, just as she knew he would be.  Watching her walk away with a look of bemusement on his face.

He was so irritating.

"Spike?"

"Pet?"

A beat.  "Stay away from me."

He smiled insincerely.  "'Course.  I'll get right on that."

She should have berated him, should have called him on it, but she didn't.  Despite the need for distance, she knew that rising to the challenge would coincide with another round of verbal combat, and leaving was something of the extremely needed.  There was a home to be getting to.  A sister to protect.

And she didn't belong here.

Spike remained stationary long after she left him alone.  God, he was strange.

Even for a vampire.

To be continued in Chapter Three: _The House of Usher_… 


	4. The House of Usher

**Chapter Three**

**The House of Usher**

No tragedy, however serious, could hamper the unspoken temperament of the Wolfram and Hart estate.   Business went about as usual, and that was all there was to it.  No melodramatic boohooing, no survivor's story, no interview with CNN—nothing.  Because this was an establishment built on causing catastrophe, and while unusual, it was no more glanced upon when it happened at home.

It simply happened.

The only truly bizarre thing about the entire ordeal was the selection of those left alive.  The two left alive.  Two.  Just two.  Lindsey McDonald and Lilah Morgan, each found under a pile of bodies.  Each pulled out by the belated rescuers who responded to an equally belated 911 call issued by the now late Mrs. Holland Manners.  

It was just as well.  Her husband was dead, too.  And without him there was no one to protect her.

Just as well.

Lindsey McDonald had just verified that he had no messages when Lilah approached; spurned by the burnout they were receiving from the wealth of Wolfram and Hart staff.  The only two to walk out alive, and they were coated in misgiving.  She went on for a few minutes, pausing once when her companion scoffed at a vampire being escorted down a corridor, before returning to her more-than-likely self-aimed tangent.

"No phone calls, no flowers.  If I were the nervous type, I'd be nervous.  But as it is, I'm just pissed."

Lindsey rolled his eyes.  So typical of her.  Thinking the entire grand scheme of things revolved around her and her precious steps to self-promotion.  "What did you expect, Lilah?" he demanded.  "We're the only survivors of the massacre.  It's natural that we're under suspicion."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "You know what I don't like about suspicion?  The part where they find us two weeks from now, dead in some freak accident."

She had a point there.  The firm had its less-than-orthodox ways of dealing with…suspicious associates. 

Still, he had to remain optimistic, even if it was ultimately the most foolish thing he could do.  "We did nothing wrong."

_Not true, _his subconscious warned.  _Your very existence is wrong.  Look at you.  At this.  This is wrong._

That voice was becoming a real nuisance.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" Lilah demanded sardonically.  "Because I work for Wolfram and Hart.  Responsibility has nothing to do with it.  If they're looking for a scapegoat, we might as well grow horns and start eating garbage."

He blinked incredulously, resentment growing.  "Scapegoat.  Scapegoat, Lilah?!  They're the one…"

The rise in his voice was dangerous and she immediately called him on it, sealing the space between them to place a neutral hand on his chest as another lawyer walked by.  Once more, they were not spared a guilt-inducing glare.  Once more, the feeling of strained camaraderie between the two people in the building that had the most reputable rivalry soared to new depths.  Lindsey quieted instantly and likewise hated himself for it.  Because he was right.  They had done nothing wrong.

For once.

When he continued, his tone was reasonably lower.  "They're the ones that wanted Drusilla brought in.  I was just following orders."  A pause.  "And I was never supportive of the entire 'let's Angelus-ize Angel' idea.  If memory serves, that was you and Holland.  Of all your endeavors, how would you compare this failure to the rest?"

"Don't you dare try to blame me."

"I'm not.  And they shouldn't either."

She balked.  "And you _honestly _think that matters?  Fine.  Indulge your denial.  Don't doubt for a minute someone's going to pay, Lindsey.  And we're the only ones left."

He steered them both into his office and stopped dead within two steps.

"Not the only ones."

The most vampire-ready building in California, perhaps the world, and no one had made mention of how three of the most notorious demons had waltzed through security and, more importantly, into his office.  Drusilla had assumed his chair, Darla seated comfortably on top of the desk.  Angelus was in the corner, arms crossed and notably bored.  Upon first glance, it was more than obvious that being here was not his idea.  Just as leaving them alive hadn't been.  

Angel hated Lindsey; Angelus wanted to convey that message personally.

Darla had to sense the tension rolling off her lover—(it was obvious even to the most ignorant observer that they had spent the past day becoming reacquainted in the biblical sense, aside murdering anyone who crossed their path)—and ignored it.  Instead, she lolled her head to the side and smiled pleasantly at the fresh face before her.  "Lindsey," she greeted conversationally.  "I've missed you.  Close the door."

Neither Lindsey nor Lilah budged an inch.

The blonde vampire rolled her eyes and grinned.  "Sweetpea, if we wanted you dead, you'd have never have made it out of the wine cellar. Now close the door."

There was no contesting that.  He complied.

"He's got cow eyes," Drusilla stated. "Big and black."  She grinned kittenishly and draped an arm across the back of the rotating chair.  "Moo..."

Lindsey sighed and decided to aim for the throat.  The presence of his most loathed adversary was slightly disconcerting, especially considering Angel's seeming willingness to end his life when he bore a conscience.

"You spared me," he said softly.  "Why did you spare me, Darla?"  

"Being dead for any period of time can impair someone's judgment," Angelus answered, eyes glowering.  "Of course, if you're complaining about your current state of non-dead, why, I could rectify that in a blink."

The vampire in question grinned at his words but did not turn to face him.  She was walking toward her intended, a coy look overwhelming her features.  "Don't mind Angelus.  He's always grumpy if he doesn't get a decent kill in before sunrise, and unfortunately, we've been rather preoccupied.  And Lindsey, Lindsey, do you really need to ask?"  She leaned inward and drew in his scent.  "Hmm.  I'm in love with you."

It was foolish sentiment, he knew, but for a minute he believed her.  Looking into the depths of her murderous eyes.  Imagining that the words were true.  That she felt something for him other than a convenient meal ticket.  The fantasy ended abruptly when she burst out laughing.  Angelus's chuckles reverberated from his corner, and Drusilla and Lilah were practically cackling.  

The laughter ended as abruptly as it started.  Darla tossed the other woman a semi-irritated glance.  "Shut up, Lilah."

"Shh!" Drusilla hissed.

"Wouldn't waste your lack of breath, darling," Angelus forewarned.  "Lilah has a knack for never shutting up."

Everyone decided to ignore that.

"You've put us in a difficult position, Darla."

"Hmmm, have I?  I could have sworn it was the three of us."  She turned back and sashayed to Angelus, grinning wildly and running her hands up his chest.  "You played a hand you couldn't afford, Lindsey.  We don't like being controlled.  Although…had I known that Holland was going to give me such a lovely treat, I might have allowed him some leeway."  

"I wouldn't," Angelus told her.

"I know, lover.  You can be so generous."  She turned back to her audience, resting her back against the other vampire's chest.  "I suppose this is a bit of a dilemma.  Choices, choices.  Such smart, young lawyers, hungry for their big break and—whups—boss gets eaten.  Someone has to step in.  Someone promising, pretty, with questionable ethics and twelve-hundred dollar suits that look good on the six o'clock news."

Lilah's brow perked.  "You think they'll promote him?"

She made a face of distaste.  "Or you.  In any case, that's why you're here.  I've decided to keep the line of communication open between us and Wolfram and Hart."

"What for?"

"I believe we can help each other."  She took one of Angelus's hands in her own and wrapped it around her middle, smiling at something he murmured into her ear.  "And before you ask, it's power I want.  _We _want.  See, during my stint as Wolfram and Hart's puppet, something occurred to me.  I _loathe _being used.  If I recall, there was a fifteen-body-memo to that effect.  We plan on being big players in this town, my boy and I.  And while you can't give me what I want, you have the things I need to get it.  Money.  Connections.  And a face to die for."

Lilah shook her head.  "We're no good to you dead, Darla.  The Senior Partners are looking for someone to blame for your massacre."

_"Our_ massacre," Angelus corrected with a growl.  He yanked the blonde vampire against him tightly, thrusting his hips tellingly into her backside.  She mewled a strangled cry of pleasure that everyone decided to ignore.

"Yes, yes," the woman complied, rolling her eyes.  _"Your _massacre.  As in, all of you.  Sorry about the ambiguity."

"Just want to make sure we're on the same page, here."  He cocked his head curiously.  "Which begs the question, and please…stop me if I sound ungrateful."  With a turn, he released Darla and started walking forward, eyes blazing without the added need of vampiric hindsight.  He could be just as frightening in his human façade.  "Why exactly was the firm so keen on releasing the big bad me?  You thought that just because I have a hard-on for anything bloody, I'd bend over backwards and play a second fiddle for your ever-industrious Senior Partners?  Please."

His blonde companion flashed a grin.  "As I believe I have clarified, we do not advocate being used."   

"The firm was interested in piecing back together the Order of Aurelius," Lindsey said.  "Though, I must say, you've thoroughly dismissed all notion of that brilliant idea."

Darla frowned quizzically.  "Meaning?"

"There was going to a committee…namely you and Drusilla," Lilah offered, nodding in the aforementioned direction.  "Holland was going to have you go to Sunnydale to pick up the last member of your Order…rather, the last of the infamous in your order.  William the—"

"My Spike," the raven-haired vampire murmured.  "Our happy family."

"Hmmm, now that _would _have been interesting," Angelus mused.  "Last I heard, though, Spike was playing the part of the Slayer's lapdog."

"Wouldn't throw stones, dear," Darla observed with a smirk.

  
            "A phase I have thankfully outgrown," he added, tossing her a somewhat irritated glance.  "Furthermore, and here's the really funny part, he has some government chip in his head that doesn't let him kill.  Isn't that tragically…hilarious?" 

Drusilla did not share his humor.  She was pouting slightly, arms crossing as she played with the spin-option of Lindsey's chair.  "Not fair," she complained.  "Lock him up and take all his toys away.  Naughty Slayer.  Stealing him away from me."  She glanced up.  "Can we get him, grandmum?  Can we go and rescue my William from that nasty, nasty Buffy girl?  I won't abide it."

"The Slayer was part of the deal," Lindsey continued.  "We wanted her as leverage."

Darla's brow quirked.  "You were going to bring the Slayer here?  How very foolish."

"Oh, I don't know," Angelus mused thoughtfully, a wicked glint in his eyes.  "I might like to see old Buff.  Give her a big, messy, and assuredly bloody kiss for sending me to Hell."  He flashed a grin at Darla.  "Not that I'm one to hold grudges, but that does irk me in a way I wouldn't advocate.  And if she's here—all the better."

"There's also word of an impending apocalypse," Lilah added, ignoring Lindsey's inquisitive glance.  "Holland was interested in its success, and what it could mean for the firm.  If the Slayer is in Sunnydale at the time that the Key is activated, she will stop—"

"Okay," the other lawyer interrupted sharply, blinking. "…what?  What Key?"

"Nothing.  The specifics are not important.  More to the fact that there is more than one reason that the Slayer was wanted in Los Angeles."

Darla grinned.  "You see?  I knew that your precious Senior Partners wouldn't act rashly.  To kill both of you would be such a waste, especially with such…colorful ideas floating in the midst.  Oh, Dru.  I smell a plan."

"Mmmm…" she agreed.  "Tastes like lemon-drops."

Angelus sighed and rolled his eyes.  "Please tell me we're not really going with the 'snatch up Spike' idea?  I really, really can't stand that boy.  Last time we met up, he decided to take to me with a crowbar."

Lindsey snickered.  "Sounds like my kind of guy."

The vampire's gaze flickered.  "We could always make the decision for the Senior Partners right now."

"Down boy," Darla said shortly.  "Wouldn't want to do anything that might stink of regret come morning."

"Believe me," he replied, eyes never leaving the other man's.  "I would never regret a kill this anticipated."  He paused.  "Well, let's just say, I'd never regret a kill.  At least one that doesn't involve some sappy Romanian gypsy virgin."

"What's your deal with Spike, then?" Lindsey asked, brows perked.  His gaze traveled intently to Darla.  "Afraid of a little competition?"

She snickered.  "Please.  I never supported the siring of that buffoon.  Oh no, dear.  He was made solely for one purpose."  The elder vampires glanced back to Drusilla, who looked to be having a very animated conversation with an invisible pixie.  "To keep our resident lunatic…shall we say…occupied?"

"When I wasn't taking liberties, that is," Angelus added with a smirk.

"He's fun…" Drusilla murmured, clinching her momentary distraction and licking her lips.  "Bumpy in all the right places.  Oh yeah.  Oohhhh…but all alone.  Watching and weeping his girl walk on by.  Pshhh…" She leaned forward, grasping Angelus by the lapels of his jacket and dragging his ear down to her mouth.  "He's taken."

The elder vampire's brows perked at that.  "Taken?"

"Dancing.  They're dancing."  At that, she drew to her feet and began swaying to something unheard, eyes closed and an almost euphoric expression on her face.  "My Spike loves the dance, but the nasty Slayer isn't interested.  She's had her supper and is too full for dessert.  She doesn't want to go to bed with an upset stomach."

Angelus glanced up excitedly, meeting Darla's eyes.  "Did you just hear what I just heard?"

"Spike's in love with a Slayer." The blonde vampire snickered and turned away.  "Honestly, what is it about this girl that makes the men of our Order slobber themselves silly?"

He shrugged.  "She's got spunk, what can I say?"

"And somehow, Spike's involvement with a Slayer doesn't surprise me at all," Darla concluded, shaking her head.  "He always was obsessed with them.  Figured it was only a matter of time before he wanted to screw his meal before making it his…well…meal.  And the fact that she was one of yours, Liam…"

"I must get him out of the hole.  So dark.  It's so dark in the hole."  Drusilla turned sharply back to Lindsey.  "Shall we go to Sunnydale, then?  Collect my boy and bring him home?"

"Collect the Slayer to make sure home's where he wants to go," Darla added snidely.  "Come to think of it, there are some things I'd like to say to that vapid cheerleader…before I rip her throat out, that is."

Lindsey frowned.  "Our motive is not for the Slayer's death…" He turned inquisitively to Lilah.  "Is it?"

"Honey, I don't think you understand," the blonde vampire answered for him.  "If I want the Slayer dead, she's dead.  Wolfram and Hart following us won't make an itty bitty bit of difference. You're chasing a tail that won't end.  And anyway, Holland is dead.  His vision has been permanently disrupted—"

"No," Lilah intervened, "it really hasn't.  The contract with Wolfram and Hart goes far beyond the mortal coil.  Holland's association with the firm—"

The vampiress waved her hand dismissively.  "Be that as it may, it doesn't change the fact that he's not here, and you are.  Therefore, I'm thinking that as far as so-called 'special-projects', the two of you have more say.  Though, really, I do thank you for the idea.  Seeing little Mousy Buffy again will be…well, I can't really think of a word."  She turned to Angelus.  "And there will be no—"

"Jealous?"

"More like disgusted."

He chuckled.  "Trust me."

"Angelus, unless I'm wrong, Hell hasn't frozen over."

Lindsey smiled quietly to himself.  "I believe that we can work together," he said cordially, stepping forward with an air of diplomacy.  "Though I must stress the importance of not underestimating the resources of our firm.  Despite however powerful the Order was in the day, Wolfram and Hart is connected to powers that should not be taken lightly."

"Oh, honey," Darla retorted, turning to meet him halfway.  "Was I not clear enough?"  She ran her hands up his mortal chest, playing the fine silk of his tie and tugging him down so that her mouth grazed his.  "I have absolutely no intention of taking anything lightly…ever…again."

And all at once, he was terrified.  Not of what she would do—the wine cellar had more than proven that he was no good to her dead.  No, the fear that blossomed in his chest had nothing to do with him.

"In the meantime," Angelus was saying, moving for the door with chipperness that looked altogether unusual on his broad figure.  "I think it would be rude if I didn't visit some friends who are long overdue for a good…talking to.  Drop in.  Say hello.  Rip out their innards.  The usual treatment amongst colleagues, wouldn't you say, darling?"

Darla smirked at him wickedly, and Lindsey's blood chilled even more.  "Oh yes," she agreed.  "In fact…a trip to Angel Investigations is just what the doctor ordered.  Just to pass the time, of course."

"Of course."

It was her.  Her power.  The power that she absolved.  The power that she flaunted.  The power that she held over Angelus, despite his attempts to look the part controllably.  There was no denying that she held him around her little finger as tightly as he liked, and more probably tighter.  What she was going to do was no longer the question.  _That, _Lindsey knew.

What frightened him was what remained unanswered.

More like, where her line of reasonability ended.

He somehow wagered that he didn't want to know.

**To be continued in Chapter Four: _The Man of the Crowd_…**


	5. The Man of the Crowd

**Chapter Four**

****

**The Man of the Crowd**

Watching her move was of the world's simplest pleasures.  

Spike stood at the balcony of the Bronze, only half paying attention to the drink in his hand.  He didn't know why he was surprised at the turnout; the popular club was the only place in town to go for anything that wasn't another wasted night in front of the telly.  Still, the horde did grow wearisome after a few years.  Bound with the same overgrown faces that only served to attract the younger generation while the older steadfastly remained of their own judgment.  The unchanged sort of sentiment that screamed, "Mine!  I was here first!"  He reckoned there ought to be a post proclaiming: **this area and all establishments herein claimed by the class of '99.**

At least it would be to the point.  

As it was, the night was looking to be even less eventful than the past few evening's patrol.  Though she would deny it, Buffy had been ignoring him with even more fervor since their trade.  She likely figured that since she had crossed some invisible line by letting him in at all, the only way to rectify it was by pretending, again, that he did not exist.

She had a birthday coming up within the next week or so.  His Slayer.    

She would never be his, of course.  He could watch her from the balcony all he wanted, and she would never be his.

Righteous little holier-than-thou attitude…

He had no true reason to be bitter.  It wasn't as though she had ever been within reach as it was.  He wasn't daft—his feelings had a way of changing at random, but he was still the same old Spike.  The same that fancied taking walks where old men died at bus stops and little girls were hunted in coal bins.  He was a monster.

And she was radiance.

He could never hope to touch her.

Spike sighed heavily and downed the rest of his drink, flinching a bit out of habit.  He placed the empty glass atop the banister and moved resignedly for a vacated seat.  There was no point driving himself insane with something he could never hope to touch.  Watching her was enough to…

Still.  Couldn't.

This was so beyond fucked up.

There wasn't much he could hope to expect from her; be that as it may, he had been hoping for a little civility.  Just a smidge.  Idle thoughts of what could come were of the not.  Those first few nights after having the initial dream that stirred his deeper subconscious awake to the tidings of his true feelings had been wrought with speculation.  An endless 'what-if' that drove him rightly out of his mind.  He couldn't help himself.  Presenting such feelings to Buffy was preposterous and he would never presume. Not to face humiliation; that much had been done in spades.  

It irked him to think of all the exceptions she made, she never once spared a glance in his direction.  Angel, Anya, and the Witches…she knew of the things that occurred down at Willy's and didn't exhibit an inkling of care.  But when it came to him, she was all eyes and ears.  She had to make sure he wasn't doing anything that would merit a visit from her pointy stakes.

All the bloody time.

The only instances that ever valued her attention circulated around when he was acting the part of the Big Bad.  Never mind the number of times he had been useful.  Saved her life along with the lives of her pathetic pals.  Their centric Scooby Gang.  

Virtuous little group of judgmental ponces…    

If he had any self-esteem at all, he would leave town.

As it was, his night looked to be rightly set in stone.  Leave, take a sweep of every cemetery within convenient vicinity in desperation for something to kill, go home, shag Harmony, go to bed.  Repeat as needed.

Yeah, this was living.

Spike snickered wryly and rolled his eyes at the inane comment that immediately sprang to mind in rejoinder.  He stood once more, casually knocked the glass off the banister in the hopes that it would hit some co-ed, received a small shock for the execution of thought even though it smashed harmlessly next to the bar, and cursed all the way down the stairs.

Before running directly into Xander Harris.

"Bloody perfect."

"Oh, Evil Undead.  You're in my space."

He arched a brow.  "Right.  Sorry.  Din't see you markin' your territory an'…for the record, I'd rather not.  I'm on my merry way.  Tootles."

At that, Xander looked a little forlorn.  "You're leaving."  

It was the sort of statement that wanted to be a question, but wasn't.  Spike's eyes narrowed further.  "Yeh…" he said slowly.  "What of it?"

"Oh, nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Give it up, mate.  Now 'm curious."

Xander sighed.  Heavily.  The peroxide vampire could practically see the relief of the man hitting himself upside the head.  The thought bore a wide grin to his face.  "I was just…with the other night and the pool-shooting.  Riley's of the gone, and you're sort've the only other male-shaped person around _my_ persons that can shoot a decent game.  Besides…" He made a face and glanced around.  "This is so not Giles's scene, despite how many times he decides to humiliate himself and us by making the occasional appearance."

Spike blinked.  Hard.  "Did…" he began curiously.  "Did you jus' ask me to go a round with you?"

"Pool!" 

It wasn't hard to see his digression; Harris's only source of amusement nowadays was trying to keep up with Anya and her various quirks, therefore it was impossible not to allow his own mind near the gutter.  And though his meaning was perfectly clear, Spike couldn't help but snag the line that practically begged to be issued.  "Oh," he said, nodding.  "You wanna go a round in the pool, 's that it.  I'd think with the thousand-plus years of experience, the Demon Girl'd know how to keep you interested."

Xander made a face.  "Fine.  Whatever.  Sorry I asked.  Oh, and by the way, let's never mention that part to anyone.  Ever."

"Give it a rest, mate.  I could use a round, myself.  You offerin' to buy the drinks, too, or do I need to knick your cash an' make like I'm makin' a grand gesture of sorts?"

To his very rich surprise, Harris responded with a wry grin, signaling over to the table.  "On account of this never happening again unless the moon is full or Hell freezes over," he said, "I'll buy.  Once!  That's it.  Everything else is on your ticket."  He stopped to glare.  "And don't think I won't be watching my wallet, buddy!  'Cause, oh, it'll be watched."

"'Course."

"Right."

"Uhh, mate?"

He turned.  "Yeah?"

Spike flashed a wicked smile and brought the object of discussion into view, dangling it tantalizingly near his face.  "Reckon you'll be needin' this."

*~*~*

It was a rare night when Xander Harris treated any vampire like a human being, especially if said vampire was one William the Bloody.

It was an even rarer night when he had such a good time doing so.  

Neither really knew how long they had been playing—score was not something of the kept.  They made inane conversation about the drinks, updated food wish lists that included spicy buffalo wings, flowered onions, and peppered fried potatoes that could influence any man's innards to liquid feces.  

Spike laughed heartily when the other man gave the infamous flowered onion a go.  "You really need to taste it with the dip," he advised.  "'S bloody brilliant."

"Yeah," Xander agreed, choking lightly.  "For someone who doesn't need to…you know…live."

"Can't help it 'f you've plugged your arteries to the 'no-pass' lane, boy.  You're too young to need that kinda treatment."  He quirked a brow.  "Though it is bloody hilarious."

"And yet."  Harris favored the vampire with a suspicious leer.  "You sure you're not trying to kill me?"

Spike snickered appreciatively and rolled his eyes.  "Oh right.  Y'got me.  My newest evil plan: death by indigestion."

"It could happen," he insisted.  "Well, it would take a lot of time, a good specimen, and a load of planning, but it's not like you've had the chance to go out and actually be scary over the past year.  Between this and _Passions, _you've gotta be bored outta your mind."

"Oh, I'm outta my mind, all right," the vampire retorted, circling the table intently as he reached for his cigarettes.  "Jus' don' know what sort is all.  An' trust me, mate, I've toured every bloody alley this pissant settlement has to offer.  All for sodding rot."

"You'd think a town with the reputation Sunnydale has would have a little more to offer its neutered undead society."

There was another approving chortle.  "Yeh.  You'd think."  The platinum Cockney lit up and inhaled deeply, studying the position of his next conquest.  "So, really, wha's this all about?  You makin' with the chatties over a game or two…even offerin' to share the wealth with the neighborly undead.  More than jus' what a good talkin' to from the Slayer earns, I'd wager."

"You're questioning my tolerance of you?"

"Well, now that you put it that way…yeah."  Spike strolled intently to the other side of the table and twirled the pool stick once for good measure.  "'S'not the li'l lady, is it?  She an' Red at odds an' ends again?"

"No.  Actually, they seemed to get that resolved."  He paused.  "Though that doesn't mean they're not trying to kill each other right now for an entirely different matter that I—swearing an oath—have no part of, and therefore cannot choose sides.  That leads down the pathway to ugly trolls and bargains that would make you look even more impotent than you do already."

Spike rolled his eyes.  "Thanks ever so."

"I meant the chip."

"Right."

"Not that I care or anything."

"'Course not."

"Good. As long as that's clarified."

The moment froze with sudden tactility, and it occurred to Spike on a not particularly momentous revelation that this was likely the longest he and Xander had gone without threatening to spill blood or reduce one another to dusty bits in…ever.  Such awareness nearly merited a deprival, but he knew enough on some innate level that this was the sort of contact that he had been sorely missing over the past months.  Moderately intelligent conversation that didn't include death threats.  A notion so thoroughly human that he knew he should reject its every fiber, yet couldn't make himself back away.  The boy was not one he cared to associate with and he very much doubted this encounter would alter that opinion in either direction; it was nice.  Accommodating, if not a little bizarre.

And still more than that.  Xander was obviously craving contact of the non-female variety.  Someone to appreciate his bizarre sense of humor and line of thinking, even if it wasn't altogether shared or of the other's respected flavor.

"Don't get me wrong," Harris continued.  "Anya is fantastic.  I love her completely.  But sometimes…"

"She's gotta few screws loose upstairs?"

"Hey!"

Spike cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

"Well, you don't have to put it that way."

He raised his hand, as though demanding acknowledgment.  "Hello, evil."

"It's not even her fault," the other man noted defensively.  "After being a demon so long, a period of adjustment is only natural.  There are things that come with…being of the functioning society variety of person that she is trying to be.  It just takes time."

The peroxide vampire blinked with a wicked grin, bringing his cigarette to his lips once more.  "Din't she pop into the mortal coil the year that Peaches an' the Slayer went separate ways?  Way I figure it," he said, aiming his shot and snickering further when he sank another ball.  "She's 'ad more than two years to adjust."

"About the same as you, in other words."

A self-protective look overwhelmed his features.  "She's had longer."

Xander grinned tightly.  "Yeah, Buffy mentioned that you were on some tangent about Anya and the number of ways we treat her like an equal while excluding our ever-present, apathetic member of the soulless community.  The very same that's plotted our deaths…how many times?"

Spike's scoff was ineffective; it was impossible to hear anything in such a smothered atmosphere.  "Oh, come off it.  That's been at least—"

"Two weeks."

"Piffle.  'Aven't made a decent attempt in at least a month.  Maybe two.  Tha's right progress."

The man held up a hand, chuckling slightly.  "Okay, okay.  What do you wanna hear?  That you're no longer bad?"

"Oi!"

"Or…you are?  I'm trying to keep up.  Anyway, I'm here, playing nice.  This count for trying?"

Yeah, of course.  Bloody trying.  Only Xander wasn't the one he wanted to get close to.  The object of his desire was on the other side of the dance floor, undoubtedly grinding provocatively against some brainless co-ed.

Bugger all.

"So is that it?" Spike asked sardonically.  "Li'l pity for the capped Big Bad?  An' here I thought you cared."

Xander smirked.  "I would never lead you on like that."

The vampire snickered favorably.  "So the Slayer took to it to tell you all what we chatted about.  Nice to know 'to the grave' doesn' even apply to the pulseless 'round these parts."

"You asked her not to tell?"

"Well, no…but 's the thought that counts."

"She was kinda wigged."

Oh, that was interesting.  "Was she?"

"Sharing her earthly woes with the Evil Dead?  I'd say so."

Spike grinned.  "So she turned around to share her earthly woes 'bout sharin' her earthly woes with the likes of me…with the likes of you?"

"Well, yeah.  That's how we work, in case you haven't noticed."  Harris absently leaned over the table to observe his opponent's alignment, missing the slightly offed expression that flashed across the vampire's face.  "Sorry for pointing out the obvious."

A snicker.  "Well, 'f you din't do it…ehm, don' exactly 'ave a follow up for that, but I'm sure you get my meanin'."

"Consider it gotten.  Are you ever going to take that shot?"

"What?  Anxious to lose some more?"

"No, I'm getting bored.  And, unlike you, I don't have forever to waste in dingy corners with myelin-deprived non-citizens."

"Lest I remind you, this entire male-bondin' exercise was your soddin' idea."

"Just take the damn shot, Spike!"

 The vampire chuckled softly and chose his angle without reflecting it, circling the table once again in a manner that was, as all things, intentionally condescending.  "'Aven't we gone over this before?" he asked rhetorically.  "You show that somethin' bothers you, an' I'm inspired to do it.  You're only hurtin' yourself, Harris."

"Yeah, well, Myself is getting pretty—"

"Anxious.  Right.  Caught it."  Spike took his shot and sank another ball, shaking his head.  "Jus' don' see why you're all eager 'bout givin' up more goods.  You jus' gotta wait for me to take another."

"It's not like we bet money."

"Right.  'Cause you know, you practically give that away for nothin'."

Xander sighed and dropped his pool stick.  "While you perfect your non-monetary compensating shot, I'll be refreshing my drink.  Notice how I said _my _drink, thus clarifying any potential misunderstandings concerning the reinstated non-you factors of my budget."

"You do that," Spike agreed disinterestedly.  "Though I wager you'd prolly get a better response from the barkeep 'f you have this on your persons."  Again, he flashed a smile and held up the other man's wallet.

Harris grumbled irately and made a hasty retreat, snatching his purloined takings with an air that suggested more than simple discontent.  "Stop doing that!"

Second attempt more successful.  The vampire chuckled and shook his head, puffing at his cigarette as he measured his next take.  The game was nearing completion and Harris had all but stood at the sidelines for the majority of its bearings.  And while not much had come of it, Spike had to admit—however begrudgingly—that he was enjoying himself.  With Stay Puft.  At the Bronze.

Who would have thought?

"You know what I can't figure out," a voice said from behind, prompting him out of his reverie, "is why you gave the wallet back in the first place.  Isn't stealing sort of your thing?"

Spike snickered and pivoted, arching a brow as the object of his desire returned the favor.  "I jus' gave him the coverin'," he explained, digging into his duster and retrieving the more-important cash with a showy grin.  "'E'll be back for the goods in a minute. How long you been there gawkin', Summers?"

"You tell me.  By last check, you're still a vampire, right?"

"You askin' for a demo?"

Buffy made a face.  "I'll pretend I didn't hear that and go right to the me ignoring you."

"Oi now.  Tha's rich.  You're the one who came over here, after all."

"Sorry.  I just saw you and Xander, didn't hear any loud yelling, and wondered if you two were A) Under a very bad spell or B) Very drunk and forgetting that you hate each other."

His eyes narrowed.  "'S that what's got your knickers in a twist?  Christ, Slayer, we're jus' playin' a round of pool.  Doesn' require your policin'.  No need to make a big thing outta it."

She smiled, and it wasn't pleasant.  Rather it was the look he had grown overly accustomed to seeing over the course of the past two years.  Bland, irritated, and completely repellent to his entire being.  "I just wanted to remind you that a good dusting is still on the menu for any move you make that's not to my liking."

"Bloody hell, you must _really _be bored."  He grinned, taking a seat at the end of the table and tapping the end of his fag lightly against its end.  "Patrol still as painfully dull as it was the last time I had the oh-so pleasurable delight of your company?"

A sigh rolled off her body and the counterfeit hostility waned.  He wasn't so daft as to believe it had taken a permanent hiatus, but this was at least progress.  It wasn't often that Buffy stepped down from her almighty horse to admit passage when no true fault was at the ready.  "Watchers are coming," she said.  "For reasons that are going to remain well beyond me.  They have information on Glory."

She didn't seem nearly as happy as she should, given that any leads were of the needed.

Spike gestured emphatically.  "And…?  Isn't this a good thing?  You are the hero of this bit, last I checked.  Information usually leads to—"

"Did you completely go deaf and not hear the 'they're coming' part?  As in here?  I hate the Watchers.  They're…" She made a face, and he found it adorable.  Then he consequentially cursed himself for finding any aspect of her adorable, but the damage was irrefutably done; as was all damage for the rest of his existence.  "Every time they come here, they try to have me killed."

"Oh, my kind of gents."

Of course, if any of them so much as looked at her in a way he didn't see fitting, he'd kill them all.  Chip be damned.  But she didn't need to know that.

Ever.

When he saw that his teasing wasn't amounting to the casual candor he had been reaching for, Spike's expression softened and he took a step forward.  "This is jus' a review though," he said civilly.  "'S not like they're gonna try to keep you from doin' your job."

"I know.  It's just sort've…" Buffy paused, frowned, and looked him over.  "Dear God, I'm doing it again."

"Huh's that?"

"Talking…just forget it."  

Spike froze, looked her over once.

And grinned.

"Slayer," he cooed, taking a step toward her.  "Don' tell me you're on the bloody prowl.  Whatsa matter?  Missin' Captain Cardboard so rightly bad that you go out to chat up the firs' vaguely male-scented—"

"If you value your existence, you will stop talking.  Now."

"Oi, I'm just tryin' to help."

"I don't need you or your help."

"You're the one who came over here, luv."

"To make sure—"

He waved a hand dismissively.  "Yeah, yeah.  Tell me another one.  Listen, Slayer, I'm frightfully sorry, but there's about a thousand other things I'd rather do than listen to you lecture me 'bout frequentin' the bar scene jus' because I suddenly make you skittish.  Not my bloody problem."

A look that could potentially freeze Hell and end world hunger in the same stroke overwhelmed her with such calm passiveness that it startled him into dazed, however unreflective submission.  Had it not been for Xander's random, "Spike! Money! Now!" call, the moment might have had chance to expand.

As it was, the vampire assumed his exit cue with a quick nod to his lady fair.

He didn't register the shiver that rippled across his skin as he stormed through the doors.  In that state, he wouldn't have recognized its connotations, or the strings of familiarity it inspired within his already fluttering belly.

He was too foregone to notice anything right now.

And was halfway home before things at the Bronze became interesting.

**To be continued in Chapter Five: _The Black Cat_…**


	6. The Black Cat

**Chapter Five**

**The Black Cat**

She was sitting in his chair facing the door when he entered the crypt that night.  

Time froze in that way he always suspected was too real for the flicks and not corporeal enough for actuality, despite the craziness the world embellished on a regular basis.  There were the standard oddities and the things so bug-shagging out of the picture that he reckoned it time for an apocalypse to wipe them away, once and for all.  Despite the obscurity that was the realm of noted demons, uglies, and things that go bump in the night—himself and his entire kind respectfully noted—the rules set hence-forth about what is and what is not in the vicinity of accepted were practically embedded in stone.

Vampires, first and foremost, were dust after being staked.  The only exception to said rule thus far was Angel, and he hadn't endured a normal staking.  As the story went, the Slayer had run him through with some enchanted sword and Acathla had taken him to Hell instead of the precious Earth.  The Powers had then interceded and revived him because he was their almighty champion or some other bloody bollocks to the same nature.  He hadn't met dust; therefore the accepted normality that coincided with his death was overlooked.  Odd, yes, but generally overlooked.

Darla, on the other hand, was very much dust.  He hadn't been there to see it firsthand, but news in that regard always travels fast.  Especially news concerning other vamps of the same Order.  Drusilla had foreseen it, of course.  Started wailing and moaning how Daddy had gone to the circus where the lights were too enchanting to turn away, became infatuated with a siren and staked grandmum dead to win the siren over.  The siren would kill him eventually, but for now she was content.  Because grandmum was dead.

Only she wasn't.  Not completely.  Darla, looking quite well and most assuredly still of the undead status, was comfortably lounged in his very own chair, grinning at him expectantly as he entered his sanctuary.

Spike blinked and looked at her for a long, dumbfound moment.  "Well," he said when the silence began to threaten.  "There's somethin' you don' see…ever."

"William.  So glad that you haven't lost your sense of humor."

"Yeh.  Could say the same to you.  By the way, what the bleedin' hell are you doin' here?"

Darla shrugged, tossing a leg over the arm of the chair and clasping her hands behind her head.  "I was just in the neighborhood.  Wanted to see how my dear grandchilde was doing.  Or are you my brother now?  Honestly, the Order has resolved itself into some Arkansas family tree.  It's rather disturbing, when you think about it."

"Disturbin'.  Yeh.  Kinda like you bein' in my crypt when you're supposed to be floatin' around in Hell or what all.  Wherever the likes of us go when s'all ashes-to-ashes an' the like."  Spike took a hesitant step inward, reaching for his cigarettes almost as a nervous habit.  "You are real, aren't you?"

"Do I look real?"

"'ve seen quite a few numbers that looked to be real in my time."

"Well, I can't blame you for asking.  You did spend the better part of a century with a lunatic."

He arched a brow.  "An' you were with Peaches for how long?"

Darla grinned lightly, and the sight was enough to send even the calmest into frightening retrospect.  "Long enough.  As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here.  More or less."

"You don' say."

"Ever heard of a little law firm in Los Angeles called Wolfram and Hart?"

"Greatest known evil on the face of the planet, right?" Spike strolled disinterestedly to the sarcophagus, appraising the woman with a quick once over to again verify her tangibility.  He half expected her to fade away—the image of some ghastly hangover that he would undoubtedly pay for come morning.

Only he hadn't drunk himself silly.  This was mildly worrisome.   

"If you discount census takers and insurance salesmen," she replied with the same demeanor, arching a brow.  "They brought me back."

Ah, sense was being made.  Wolfram and Hart _did _have the means to extract such potent magic, and certainly didn't have any reservations concerning the dangers in bending the continuum of everything set in the natural order.  

"Good for them."

"Three guesses why."

He rolled his eyes.  Of bloody course.  "King Forehead, I'm presumin'," Spike replied sardonically.  He moved without awaiting a reply to the other side of the crypt, still put off by her presence.  "Wha's the story?"

She shrugged.  "They wanted Angelus."

"An' they went with you."

"They also wanted to drive him crazy."

"Well, by havin' you revived, I'm guessin' they played their cards right."  Spike grinned cheekily at the annoyed expression that overwhelmed her features, reaching into the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of half-consumed bourbon.  "Drink?"

"What?"

"Do you wanna drink?  Got some cold blood, but somethin' tells me that you aren't quite on the same diet I am."  When she failed to acknowledge his offering, he shrugged and took a long swig.  "Right then.  Suit yourself."

There was a long silence.  Darla finally stood and brushed herself off.

"So, this is what you do now," she said, glancing around her surroundings.  "You've nested quite nicely.  Conveniently near the Slayer.  And yet she's still alive.  Still annoying, still slaying.  You disappoint me.  Surely this is not the work of the great William the Bloody, renowned Slayer of Slayers.  Petulant braggart."  She quirked an eyebrow, grinning nastily.  "What's wrong, _Spikey__?  _Waiting to make just the right move?"

Her words cut deep, but he made no effort to show it.  There was no way he was willfully conceding the upper hand, even if he knew it wasn't his to concede.  "Why waste a good thing is my bloody motto," he replied casually.  "Got me a sweet li'l set-up.  Bunches an' bunches of tasty towners, a good brawl here an' there, an' a Slayer who keeps me on my toes.  Finally took a page outta your own bloody book, Darla.  Slow deaths are ever so much more fun."

"Hmmm," she replied thoughtfully.  "Interesting.  And here, I could've sworn your incompetence was due to the government chip some fraternity boys shoved up your cranium.  Really, William, it was an honest mistake."

Spike's face fell.  Despite however much time had passed, being reminded of that was not on his list of priorities.  It was bad enough enduring Xander's insidious nicknames along with Buffy's constant line of ridicule.  "An' here," he spat acidly, "I'd all but forgotten why I was so glad you'd been staked by your honey.  Thanks for the reminder.  You're free to see yourself out."

Darla grinned and spread her arms.  "Why would I want to leave," she retorted, "when I'm so comfortable here?"

"I could escort you out, 'f you're havin' such a hard time of it."

"You couldn't."

"This chip stops me from samplin' the human goods, pet.  You're fair game."

Her expression remained the same.  "I know that.  You couldn't."

There was really nothing to say to that.  Despite her reanimation into the vampiric world and his current technical advantage in age, she was right.  Darla had the goods where it counted, and more experience than any vampire before the Master that he had ever encountered.  "Right…" he drawled in defeat, hating the tone in his voice but similarly knowing there was no good way to eradicate it while she was here.  "Not to sound bored…or wait, bollocks to etiquette.  What brings you to ole SunnyD?  Last I checked, Wolfram an' Hart's up in LA with Peaches.  Practically within a stones throw of each other.  You shouldn't 'ave taken that left at Albuquerque."

"Angel and I have already had our heart-to-heart.  I thought it better to check up on old acquaintances."

Spike grinned.  "Y'know, you shoulda taken a snap of his face.  I woulda paid anythin' for a glance at that bucket of surprise."

Darla smiled conspiratorially.  "It was rather amusing."

"Still doesn' answer my question.  You an' I aren't exactly fond of each other.  Why take time out of your busy Peaches-pesterin' schedule to visit yours truly?"

"Right to the chase, then?"

"Just the way I fancy it."

"Very well."  Darla pursed her lips and considered.  "I have a proposition for you."

Spike arched a brow in wordless consent to continue.

"Wolfram and Hart's modus operandi has changed drastically since they brought me back into the worldly helix.  Prior to his…well, I would say untimely death, but it was just too funny at the time—Holland Manners had organized a rather interesting proposal."  She crossed her arms, awaiting a response and frowning lightly when he offered none.  As though his silence was a terrific insult to both her and their kind.  "Evidently, he had plans to reassemble the Order of Aurelius."

Spike's brows perked.  "Well now.  That is a bit of interestin'.  Show Angel the light, so to speak, coax Dru back and bribe me with pretty words and frillies?"  He scoffed and shook his head. "Good luck findin' Dru.  Last time I saw her, she—"

"She's in town."

Okay.  Wasn't expecting that.  "She's what?"

"When Wolfram and Hart brought me back, there was an unfortunate mortal twist.  They sent me to Angel a sniveling, whining, pitifully soul-inflicted squashed cabbage leaf.  They also sent me dying of syphilis."  A look of pure hatred manifested in her eyes.  "When he refused to sire me because of his poor tortured conscience, they brought in someone who would."

The peroxide vampire couldn't help but stare in wonderment.  The revelation was enough to paralyze anyone into speechlessness.  "So…Dru vamped you?"

"That she did."

Then he couldn't help himself.  He grinned.  "Betcha jus' can't stand it.  You were never her number one fan."

"Aside you and Angel, I can't think of anyone who was."

He shrugged.  "Chaos demons, apparently.  So Dru's on board.  Is that your big sellin' point?  Tryin' to lure ole Spike with—"

Darla smiled sweetly.  The same kind of sugar laced with cyanide.  "Let's get one thing very, very clear, _Willy."  _She leaned forward and her eyes drew to two fine daggers.  He would never doubt their edge.  Never question the threat behind her words.  A hundred years experience had taught him strictly in the opposite interest.  "I don't give a flying fuck if you come with us or stay here, the laughing stock of the Order.  The only one of us _fool_enough to allow himself to become the guinea pig of some boys in white coats.  A _lab rat._You're a disgrace to our kind.  Always have been.  The only reason I see having _any _benefit to your addition is a potential distraction for Dru while Angelus and I tear the city apart."

Spike prowled forward intently, eyes sparkling with malevolence.  "'S that right?" he asked coldly.  "Well, that works out jus' dandy.  Dru's made it up an' clear that I don' hold her interest anymore, an' I can think of about a thousand other things I'd rather do than watch you an' the Great Poof engage in a twenty-four hour shag-a-thon.  'F you 'aven't heard, things with me an' Angelus weren't exactly rosey when 'e took his magical mystery tour to Hell."

"That's right.  You sided with the Slayer."

"Preferable to sidin' with the likes of you."  He snickered and shook his head, batting a hand dismissively and nodding in the direction of the door.  "Why don' you sod off?  Get Dru, tell her no deal, an' get the hell outta town before the Slayer—"

"What?  Finds out?"  Darla arched a brow and crossed her hands primly.  "You see, sweetie, that's another one of the perks.  If your lovely former's following protocol—and trust me, I'm not holding my nonexistent breath on that whim—your dear old Slayer's night has taken a turn for the interesting."

Spike froze.  "What?"

"Another delightful twist to Holland's much delayed revelation.  Evidently, this little proposal includes a deal concerning your very own heart's desire.  Drusilla, naturally, suggested that we find her and drop something heavy on her head."  Darla shuddered slightly.  "You'd think immortality would strengthen my tolerance for such tomfoolery.  It hasn't."

There wasn't room for consideration.  The brazen Cockney stormed over to his great-grandsire and grasped her by the shoulders, delivering one good, hard shake.  It was a breech in the expected, but he wasn't thinking straight.  He wasn't thinking at all.  His foresight was clouded with vats of unbridled, unkempt fury-turned-concern, and he couldn't have helped himself he tried.  "Where is she?!" he demanded.  "What's she doin' to Buffy?"

Darla didn't flinch.  Didn't move.  Merely studied him before throwing her head back with a long cackle.  "Oh my God!" she exclaimed in glee.  "It's worse than I thought.  Ohhh, how delightfully pathetic."

"Shut the bloody hell up.  Where is she?"

"Do you have so little faith in your precious Slayer that you think Dru poses a threat?  After all, she has managed to school _you _rather effectively."  The blonde vampire shook her head, laughing still.  "Of course, you never resorted Rohypnol, did you?  No, no.  Our Spike must have his fair fight.  It's that sort of thinking that got you all chipped up with no place to go in the first place."  

It was quite possible that he was rendered stationary with absolute fury—or shock, one of the two.  "You're…" He closed his eyes in effort to maintain some semblance of control.  "You're plannin' to _drug _the bloody Slayer?"

Darla shrugged.  "All a part of Holland's great vision.  He truly was ahead of his time.  Angelus will be most pleased."

"I—"

"Oh yes.  He's already in the game.  Fully stocked.  Likely tearing that living practical joke of Angel Investigations apart right now."  She grinned winningly and hoisted herself onto the abandoned sarcophagus.  "It's left to you, my dear.  Lindsey, my charmingly ignorant personal association, has assured me that finding means to eradicate you of your…condition won't be very difficult at all, given Wolfram and Hart's connections.  So you see, Spike, it's a win-win situation.  No chip, Drusilla, and even a Slayer to play with on the weekends."

But he was hardly listening to her—his mind racing.  Buffy was still at the Bronze, most likely.  On a Friday night with patrol as slow as it had been all week, going home early was not in the vicinity of probable.  If he left now, he might be able to stop whatever Drusilla had planned.  

_Or your arrival might look bloody timely. _

He didn't have time to care with particulars.  While Buffy was resilient and more than pertinent in the area of strength, she wouldn't expect such a stealthy approach.  She wouldn't expect Darla.  She wouldn't expect the technique of advance to center on apprehension rather than death.  She wouldn't expect to be drugged.  

Without realizing it, he had set off for the door, strides heavy and intent.  

"Where do you think you're going?" Darla asked coyly.

Spike stopped at the door and glanced over his shoulder without turning.  "Go home."

"You're really going to do it, aren't you?  Go after your precious Slayer?"

"'F I come back an' you're still here, you crazed bint, I'm gonna tear your bloody head off.  Understand?"

There was an amused chuckle.  "Do you really think you could?"

It was an adventurous boast.  Despite his theoretically advanced age, she had experience he could never rival.  Strength that could not be banished with death, and newfound power she was only now exploring.  

But he was William the Bloody.  That could never be discounted.

Thus, he settled for what was known.  "Do you really wanna find out?"

There was another chortle and nothing more.  He took that as enough of an answer and left.  

He was running before the door had closed.

*~*~*

In the face of his return, Spike was amazed that he had so easily disregarded Drusilla's presence upon his leave.  The area around the Bronze stunk of her.  Her scent.  Her aura.  That innate tie he had with his sire, and would always have despite the status of their rather questionable relationship.  His skin tingled as he approached the entrance, and the familiar shadow of foreboding that he was growing to loath grasped his nonbeating heart with more authority than he cared to acknowledge.

It was foolish to worry himself about the Slayer.  After all, she had powers he had only dreamed of.  She was much too advanced for the likes of Drusilla; had been the last time they faced off.  The year that his beloved former murdered Kendra.  Even then in the face of challenge, he knew Buffy would have overpowered her.  She had the strength and the cunning.  

She was the best.  No bloody doubt.

And yet, that wasn't even the cause that merited his voiceless concern as preposterous.  He was a vampire, goddammit.  He wasn't supposed to worry about the Slayer.  There was no helping himself.  Worry had prompted him across town in record time.  Worry had fueled his frozen insides.  Worry had given him reason for being.

Spike took one step inside and felt all melt to the sands of incongruity.  Worry had cost him his dignity, and had apparently been for nothing.  

Buffy was as he left her, more or less.  Hunched over the bar, talking to Willow and Xander, laughing at some inane joke voiced by the latter.  

It was odd the way his tensions dissipated the minute he saw her.  Giggling, chatting, so wonderfully disinterested in anything he could ever offer.  So distant.  So detached.  Beyond his grasp.  Remote and aloof.

Better.

So fucking perfect.

"Oh look," Xander said in greeting once he spotted him.  "It's Return of the Evil Undead.  You do know that you abandoned a perfectly good game of pool…and that I consequentially won by default.  And the money you took…I'd like it back."

Spike ignored him and approached worriedly.  There was still no sign of Drusilla, but he knew her well enough to not be put off by the absence of her persons.  The signs pointing to her presence were too great to overlook to discount.  "Everythin' here all right?" 

Buffy shot him a painfully fake smile.  "Well," she began, "it was until you showed up.  Again.  You know, I was getting really attached to that thing that happens when you're not around.  The sheer contentment that is me."

Nope. Nothing wrong here.

"Slayer, my deep apologies.  I din't realize your cycle was due to start.  'F I'd've known, I woulda hurried over before the bombs dropped."

"Hey, Spike," Willow greeted before Buffy could scream at him.  "What's up?  Nothing of the evil nature to do tonight?"

"I got a lead," he replied conversationally.  "A li'l birdie dropped by my crypt.  Dru's in town."

A still beat settled over the group.

"Dru's in town?" Xander repeated incredulously.  He turned to Buffy.  "Those vamps that were here earlier didn't seem to be under the influence of anyone particularly…well…insane, did they?"

"Vamps?"

"Yeah," he answered airily.  "There were a few.  No big, though.  There was slayage action, then we resumed the typical Bronze-bashing that was us.  Exempt your presence, though, which is always welcome."  He held up a hand before the vampire could speak.  "And for the record, all attempts made by myself to bury the hatchet became null and void the minute you left our game.  That was a one-shot opportunity, buddy.  Too bad for you that you missed out."

"So it would seem," he answered, distractedly glancing around the Bronze.  It was admittedly impossible to decipher if she was in vicinity with so many people lounging about, but he was entirely too self-conscious now to move.  As though his very presence endangered them.  Of course, Drusilla was the jealous type.  If she saw him lounging around the very cause of her initial leave, sparks of the decidedly ungood nature were prone to fly.

"So, back to the big," Harris intervened again.  "Dru's in town?"

He blinked back to attention, annoyed.  "Yes, Special Ed.  Need me to repeat that in your good ear?"

"So what are you doing here…with the panicky face and the asking how everyone is?" The boy gestured emphatically.  "Shouldn't you be off somewhere catching up on old times?  Or is that too personal a question?"

Oh right.  The peroxide vampire's shoulders fell a bit at that.  This had to look a bit awkward.

"Don't patronize him, Xander," Buffy intervened, her voice dripping with cynicism.  "Now that Spikey's been neutered, he's probably a bit shy to be seen around her."  She flashed another venomous smile.  "Either that or the sleeping with Harmony."

The Slayer was out for blood tonight.  Extra bitey to compensate for all the unnatural bonding that had been occurring as of the late.

Heinous bitch.

"Whatever," he said dismissively, turning to leave.  "Pardon a bloke for carin'.  Though, 'f she does decide to show, tell her to rip your innards out real good for yours truly.  Or to at leas' drop a line, so I can come an' bathe in your blood, even 'f it isn't me doin' the spillin'."

He was gone again before anyone could offer a final word.

_Bloody ungrateful wankers.___

Definitely the last time he stuck his neck out for the likes of them.

Well, at least this week.

To be continued in Chapter Six: **Everybody's Fool**...


	7. Everybody's Fool

**Chapter Six**

**Everybody's Fool**

Fucking perfect.

"What is this?" Spike growled vehemently, casting his duster to the vacant chair as he stormed inward.  "'Ave I turned into a bloody Holiday Inn?  Is there a vacancy sign advertisin' a room in large neon letters that I missed?  What the _hell _makes you birds think you can waltz in an' out of here as you please?"

The woman in question looked forlorn at the inquiry.  She pouted, and he had to remind himself that he was angry.  A century's worth of schooling was enough to convince his feet to cross the floor and take her in his arms.  After all, she had been the love of his unlife.  His salvation.

She had also ripped his heart out, stomped on it twice for good measure, and persuaded him back here.

Where he fell in love with the Slayer.

And now she was in his crypt, standing precisely where he had left Darla prior to bolting for the Bronze.  She was alone; he knew that much.  The presence of his great-grandsire had faded even as her scent lingered.  But that didn't change the very persistent depiction of a woman in his home.  A woman he would have killed—very literally—to see a few months ago.  A woman who had since wedged her way onto the unwelcome list.

His once black goddess.

Drusilla was still pouting, her large brown eyes drooping at his duress.  "Are you not pleased to see me?"

He snickered and marched inward begrudgingly.  This was turning into a very peculiar night.  Were it any other town, any other livelihood, and he would've sworn he was dreaming.  But no.  Reality was too weird for words at times.  Especially in a place where that particular phrase was consumed and digested on a daily basis.  "Wonderful, luv," he snickered.  "Did the pixies tell you that, or were you able to work it out on your own?"

"I thought grandmum had talked with you.  She did not mention you being cross."  Drusilla grinned seductively and took a step forward.  "Do you want to punish me, William?  Have I been awfully bad?"

"I really can't stand for more of this, you know.  You got your own bloody town to run amuck through.  Leave me outta it.  What the _fuck_ is this?  Pick On Spike Week?"  He caressed his brow in loom of an impending headache.  "Jus' bugger off, Dru.  Take Darla an' get the hell back to Los Angeles.  'm sure there's plenty of fun to be had there."

She whimpered.  "My boy does not want to come to the circus?  There's a great big elephant, you know.  And the acrobats have begun their stretches."

"Good for them.  Get out."

Over the past half century, Spike had taken to mentally comparing Drusilla's pout to the mournful sadness displayed by Pound Puppies.  It used to have a profound effect on him, but now it simply made him angry.  Her antics had been once purposeful; while motive had not changed, the thought of what she was trying to accomplish did little more than prod his negative buttons.  "You don't mean that," she continued dazedly.  "Didn't grandmum tell you our delightful plan?  What fun it will be?  Round and round we go, never hopping off the carousel even when our mummies and daddies shake their fingers at us.  We're very bad children.  Naughty.  Shhhh."

The peroxide vampire rolled his eyes.  "Yeh.  The ole bag laid full load on me.  Bloody Peaches has gone the way of the Dark Side an' now everyone wants a retake of our fun in nineteenth century Europe.  Merry loads of bloodshed an' laughter to make some deranged happily ever after."  He paused with a frown.  "Only without the rhyme.  That was bloody disturbin'."

There was a long-winded whine.  "You really don't want to come?" When he offered nothing more than an arched brow in turn, the vampiress pressed her hands to her ears and began moaning in earnest.  "Poor Spike.  My poor, poor Spike.  Left here in the cold when everyone else gets their cookies and milk.  We're going off and the little birdies will eat all the crumbs if we leave you any to follow."

"Just leave, Dru.  I won't be followin'."

"I don't want to," she complained.  "Not without my prince."

"Learn to live with disappointment."  Spike snickered and moved for his discarded duster to fish out a half-smoked pack of cigarettes.  "Know I did."

"Are you still sore?  Mummy could kiss it better."

He shook his head and lit up.  "Snooze you lose, luv.  You walked out on me, din't you?  Mummy's kisses 'ave turned bloody sour."  When her looked displayed a longing for lost comprehension, he sighed melodramatically and shook his head.  "You walked out on _me, _you crazed bint!  I did everythin' I could for you!  Every single day for a sodding century!"  Temper got the better of him; he consigned his ciggies to the floor without consideration, knowing belatedly that he would regret that once he had the place to himself again.  "Bloody well worshipped the ground you walked on.  Gave you _everythin' _you ever asked me for.  Bent over backwards to make sure you were happy.  And where the _fuck _did it get me?  Here!  In Sunnyhell with a blasted chip up my skull.  The pun to the Slayer's radically unfunny sense of humor an' forced to play nice with the other puppies 'cause it's the only way I can get a decent spot of violence.  An' _now _you want me back?  To come with you?  For what!  I might not like what's become of me, but I've bloody well adjusted.  Makin' the bleedin' most of it.  You 'ave some nerve to try an'—"

Drusilla whimpered again, effectively tearing into his rant.  She wiped her eyes of fake tears and sniffed pathetically in an overdrawn cry for furthered attention.  "I'm here to save you, my sweet.  To make everything all right again.  I've felt you calling.  All alone, whispering and clawing at the dark.  My prince…trapped in a prison of electricity where the nasty fence shocks you if you reach passed the wire.  Left in the corner where only…only…"

"So, yeh…news travels."

"The big bad lawyers told me.  They whispered all sorts of nasty lies."  She neared, nuzzling the crook of his neck.  "But the stars, my sweet.  They tell the greatest lie of all.  They said that you had gone away from me.  So far that I cannot reach you.  So far into the dark where my help cannot lead you back to where you belong."

Spike snickered and moved aside, puffing appreciatively at his cigarette.  "You lost interest in tryin' to reach me years ago.  The only reason you're here is to make your precious Daddy happy.  Sorry, Sweets.  I've had my fair share of that scene, an' I'm not lookin' for a repeat."

"Not even for your princess?"

That was bloody rich.

"Face it, Dru.  You stopped bein' my princess a long time ago."

Someone unaccustomed to her random bouts of behavior would have been taken for a loop.  As it was, he had more than his fair share of experience playing on his behalf.  When she fell to her knees and began moaning once more, shaking violently, it was an exercise in protocol not to go to her immediately.   "You…you stink of her!"  She proclaimed loudly, wiping her hands against herself as though trying to rid her skin of an unwanted residue.  As though contact with her former love was contamination of his uncanny humanity.  As though she was in danger of contracting the same sort of caring.  "She's all over you.  Filthy, rotten girl.  Stealing my William.  But she leaves you in shadows so that she can dance.  You're in the shadows now.  With me."

"You came to me, luv.  So, yeh.  I got myself a li'l problem concernin' a girl that will, for the sake of this conversation, remain nameless.  'S your fault, anyway.  Y'should've known a right catch like me wouldn't stay on the market long after we parted ways."  He managed a semi-cocky smile that failed for his lack of feeling.  "Did you think I'd wait around for you to come to your senses?"

"She's…" Her face crumpled with disgust.  He knew that feeling well having grown more than accustomed to its presence.  His own realization where his heart lay, and would remain until Buffy finally snuffed it or he rightfully met his dust.  Either option was not the sort that one aspired to accomplish.  "She's a _Slayer, _my lovely.  A nasty, wicked girl.  Ooohhhhh…my skin is crawling all over.  Crawling, crawling…" She started scratching at her flesh madly, a glance of pure desperation overwhelming her.  "Make it stop!  Make it stop!"

Spike had the decency to look sheepish.  "Oi.  No one's braggin' here."

Drusilla mewled pitifully as her compulsion deepened.  "I cannot see you.  You're lost in the woods and I cannot take you home."  She paused; ignoring the skeptical look he gave her, and had cried out in pain the next minute, clutching at her stomach.  It was habit alone that prompted him to go to her, to support her in his arms as the vision came and went.  The familiar trembling lasted only a minute, but she clutched to him far longer than needed.  "The big bad wolf is coming for you, my Spike.  All alone, lost in the woods.  Galloping, galloping, and here he comes."

A flawless eyebrow perched.  "Somethin's comin' to get me?" he asked hesitantly.  "Think your timin's a li'l off, sweetheart."

"But no…it's coming for the both of you."  As suddenly as it had appeared, her depression alleviated and a huge grin sprouted across her face.  "Ooh, isn't that pretty?  You should really see it, my darling.  The stars are painting such lovely colors.  And now…the sky is about to open." The still crypt rang with the harmonious melody of a delighted squeal.  "No one can stop the lark from singing.  Sweet nightingale.  Born to the night, just as we are.  Singing sweetly until the nasty lark comes to chase you off.  Bad lark.  The sun will do nasty things to you when she wakes."  With another demented cackle, she pivoted to her childe, eyes shining like gems.  "You have been a very bad doggie," she scolded, performing the international sign for 'shame on you' before bringing her finger to her lips.  "No treats for the bad doggies, you hear?  No, no…no treats at all."

Spike sighed tiredly.  This was getting really old, really fast.  "You've heard my answer, luv," he said with every last strain of patience that he could muster.  "An' I've had my fair share of nightly visitors.  Go tell Darla that 's off.  The whole buggerin' deal, you get me?  I want no part of this."

 "But I have a secret," she cooed, eyes distant in a gaze that forewarned little was getting through.  "Miss Edith told me not to share.  She'll be so disappointed if I break my word.  But I'm cross with her.  She whispers lies against the night wind and makes it impossible for the children to have their cake and milk."

Another sigh.  Experience cautioned that it was better during such spells to simply humor her.  The consequences if impatience was exacted could be very dire.  He knew this firsthand.  "All right, luv.  All right.  What did Miss Edith tell you?"

Not a beat was spared.  Drusilla fell to her knees unceremoniously and straddled her wrists, raven hair flying back as her eyes narrowed gleefully.  "The beast is coming for you," she informed him, rocking back and forth.  "Scampering down hallways, looking over the corridors.  You aren't as sneaky as you think. No, no. Not nearly enough time.  No.  We don't want to make the King of Cups unhappy. That won't do at all.  Oooohh!" she threw her head back, grinning as though she had just reach some orgasmic bliss.  "My Daddy likes to play.  He and grandmum want to taste her blood.  They will pour it down every hallway and dance naked under the moonlight.  He is a vulture, circling around the dead.  And you…" Her eyes opened and cleared, centering resolutely the peroxide vampire.  "You are the lark, and he is going to make you bleed all over."

There was one thing he knew for certain; making Drusilla jealous was not something that one should aspire to, regardless of her disposition.  His affection for the Slayer was dangerous enough—implicating Angelus would likely push her over the proverbial edge.  

But the Grand Poof wasn't interested in making Buffy his voracious sex kitten.  If he wanted her in Los Angeles, it was for one cause and one cause alone.

It was rather unnerving, knowing that he would stake Drusilla here and now if she made one brazen move to complete her still-unvoiced intentions.  Unnerving to know that he was so lost already as to compromise a hundred years of history for the sake of something that would never be his.  Buffy was untouchable, and he accepted that.  He accepted that the morning he awoke from that godawful (bloody fantastic) dream.  The morning he first realized the depth of his true feelings.  Even if he performed the largest transformation the world had ever seen, there was no hope for his hapless desires to manifest.     

It was a dreary acknowledgment, but he was satisfied.  Content.  Because with her, with this distant admiration, he knew the only peace that the century had offered.  

Drusilla had been his savior; Buffy was redemption in itself.  And to protect her, he would do what every fiber of his being rejected.  He would stake his sire.  He would defy the mandate of vampiric law.  He would betray his brethren and do all he could to protect the Slayer.  

Hell, he was a rebel, after all.  

"Pet," he said slowly, stepping forward, every move marked with caution.  He knew her well enough to know that the slightest offset could potentially send her down a spiral of bad tidings.  Even in falsely civilized conditions such as this.  "Y'don't know what you're gettin' into here.  There's…stuff in motion that you can't stop.  You an' Darla an' the Ponce can be as bloody chaotic as you please in dear ole LA.  I—"

She held a hand up, quivering slightly.  Every indication of a merry temperament lost itself completely with the presence of her demeanor. "I see you," she whimpered, voice quivering.  "Nasty little jibes.  Dancing all on your lonesome.  You'd kill for her…" The crazed vampire's fingers caressed her own lips as if to ward off nasty words from escaping into the air.  "You'd kill your princess?"      

"Dru—"

"You'd…" And then she was disgusted, scratching at her skin once more.  The face of a leaper without his disease.  That was his girl, all right.  The true first—_Spike's _first, and in many ways, the only.  She had brought him here.  A nineteenth century lunatic attempting admirably to keep up with a world that did not want her.  "You'd die for her.  Nasty, nasty William.  Reeking of the Slayer.  She stinks you up, she does.  Perfuming her _good intentions _all over."

"You an' Darla…" He sighed.  This was more difficult than he could have ever comprehended.  "You jus' need to go back.  I've told you my part.  The answer's no.  Bloody carnage, sod all.  Got me plenty of that 'ere."  The nagging voice harbored perpetually in the back of his head forewarned that he was dangerously close to talking himself out of his own excuse, but somehow, even that cautionary diction failed to signal any red signs.  As though, despite his liking for violence, he knew well enough to leave matters be.  The chip's exclusion would be a plus.  A major plus.  But somehow, the appeal had lost itself.  He hadn't given it much thought at all since the night that everything changed for him.  And that was the way it was.  "Jus' doesn' hold the same thrill for me anymore."

"I've wrecked you," she decided sorrowfully.  "I've turned you inside out and all the birdies tear at your ribbons until there is nothing left but spoiled milk."

"Yeh well, your bad, pet."  He spread his arms.  "'m a taken gent.  I might be bloody ruined, but I'm taken."

Drusilla sniffled.  "Grandmum will be most displeased."

"Piffle.  _Grandmum _doesn' give two bloody pisses about me.  Never has.  She made herself quite clear when she was…" Spike trailed off with dangerous realization, glancing about the crypt in confirmation of what was already known.  Though he had acknowledged it upon approach, Darla's absence hadn't struck him as particularly suspicious until it occurred to him that in a town of such size, there wasn't much territory to explore.

And if the tale was accurate, her invitation at the Summers residence still stood.

"Dru," the peroxide vampire said sharply, parading over to his dark maker and grasping her by the shoulders.  One good shake—not too violent.  He wouldn't be intentionally violent with her unless it came down to radical decision-making.  "Where's Darla?"

She blinked at him.  A long, annoyingly tame blink.

"Where.  Is.  Darla?"

Another blink.  Then slowly, she smiled.

"Grandmum went for walkies," Drusilla singsonged, pulling free without much persuasion.  "She wanted to dance under the moonlight and taste the delights off the candy-coated tree.  They are quite nummy, as I recall.  Loads and loads of sweets to eat.  Apples, plums, and—" 

"Did you do somethin'?" 

"My prince asks—"

"Bugger your sodding prince!"  Spike knew he was on the verge of bursting into game face, and had he a moment to stop and reflect; he would have been taken aback by the unspoken implication.   "You're understandin' me, Dru.  I know that look.  Stop skittering around the question an' answer me.  Darla mentioned somethin' about some drug.  Ro…Rohypnol, tha's the one.  Popular among date rapists an' the like."  He paraded closer, eyes flashing neon.  Energy protruded from every dead vein, begging to be released.  A timely image of the Incredible Hulk flashed within his hindsight, and he inwardly reminded himself to kill Xander for the bloody awful cultural references.  "You were at the Bronze tonight, weren' you?  The place was crawlin' with—"

"I remember the Bronze," she replied cryptically, kittenish grin revealing too much of what had not been said.  "We used to go dancing.  All of us.  Remember that, William?"

"Actually, you an' Peaches would go dancin'.  I'd watch from the bloody sidelines.  On.  With.  It."  He paused.  "The lackeys…Stay Puft mentioned there were a few—"

"Ooohh!  My boy's getting it!  Closer, closer, please!  You're almost there."  The grin on her face grew wider, and she was practically bursting with glee.  "You mustn't be cross with us, Spike.  Grandmum assured me all was for your benefit.  And I do so want to do right by you, my sweet.  To make everything the way it should be."  She brought her hands behind her head and thrust her pelvis against him suggestively.  "Grandmum always knows best."

 Spike's eyes went distant with the cold sting of realization.  

"Buffy."

"She's gone!" Drusilla cried gleefully, clapping her hands together.  "Ring around the rosey, pockets full of posey, the nasty Slayer is gone!  Oh, we're going to have such fun with her!"

"This was all Darla's fixin'.  She knew I'd…" In all his years, he didn't reckon he'd ever felt any thicker than he did at that minute.  "She knew that I'd race across town the moment she mentioned that you were after her."

It was useless attempting to make conversation with Drusilla.  She was completely foregone, resorting to twirling in endless circles, face mapped with unkempt delight.  "It's just as I thought it would be!" She stopped just as suddenly as she began, focusing darkly on her platinum childe.  "I'm sorry you do not wish to come with us, my darling," she said regretfully.  "But if you like, I will give the Slayer your regards."

In days to come, Spike would wonder what prompted him to let her go that night.  He remembered distinctly wishing her dead.  He remembered the charge coursing through his numb limbs, the will to pop her head off good and proper.  To do what he had wanted to do time and time again for ruining him.  For sending him here.  For bringing him to his complete and final destruction.  He had imagined it a thousand ways.  A thousand times.  Every corner of Drusilla's demise was etched out and played, stopped, and played again.

But he couldn't do it.  Not that night.  

Not when his thoughts were consumed by one consistency.  One reason to end all other reasons.

One choice to make in order to right the others broken.

He knew.  He knew what he had to do.  A decision made with such ease that it would have startled him into submission if he truly recognized the layered nadir of his transformation.  Knee-deep in redemption without knowing that such was what he sought.  Drowning in the light.

Drowning before he fell.

The beginning had never looked so bleak.

**To be continued in Chapter Seven: _A Distant Chord_…**


	8. A Distant Chord

Chapter Seven 

A Distant Chord 

In any regard, the start of anything had never looked so distant.  And he had known quite a few beginnings.  While every nerve in his being demanded immediate retribution for his admittedly stranded view, he knew that he would pay dearly if he dared trudge uncharted terrain without a hunting permit. 

There were other things as well.  The Scoobies.  His own verification.  While he did not distrust Drusilla's ramblings and knew more than enough than to question her testimony, his insane former was known for claims that exceeded reputable acknowledgement.  She was dancing over thin ice, performing quite well for someone who did not know how to skate, and having a marvelous time poking her tongue out at him from a distance.

The small nagging voice that he had grown to hate delighted in reminding him that most of this was likely his fault.  He didn't know how or why, but there was usually a contract that bid him to the fault-having portion of any given predicament.  The knowledge that, despite curiosity, the smartest thing he could have done the minute he saw Darla was throw her out.  That confirming his sensationally sick desire to have the Slayer in all means excluding her death merited as one of the worst calls he had ever made.  

That Darla's absence from his crypt when he returned rang a clear sign of danger, especially when he sensed Drusilla at the Bronze.  Of course.  Dear grandmum would never entrust a mission so bold as to hijack a Slayer in the hands of a loony she did not particularly care for.  Her coming to Spike in the first place was a divisionary tactic that worked beautifully; what was more, she had made no small game about that.  She had openly confessed her personal distaste, the offers presented at the hand of Wolfram and Hart, and how he was only beneficial to her as a distraction for Drusilla.  Every hinted aspect of fair warning wasted.  In one ear and out the other.

It certainly wasn't the first time, and he was not daft enough to believe that it would be the last.

There was simply too much left open to strategy.  He knew that Drusilla had visited the Bronze; the impression of one's sire was something that would never be forgotten.  It was ingrained, innate, and completely charged every fiber that commanded symbiotic response.  And he knew, given that, that his deranged former would have been forced to maintain safe distance from her prey.  

The vampires that had arrived at the opportune moment provided the needed distraction.  Enough time to slide Rohypnol into a discarded drink.  Knowing Dru, she likely opted to drug the lot of them, just for safekeeping.  Or to make the situation that much more entertaining.

Then she had come to him.  She had come to convince him back to Los Angeles with her.  And he, like a blind idiot, allowed Darla to do the rest.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

And now, assuming his suspicions were correct, they were in the mother of all dilemmas.  Glory the Wonder Bitch was out and about, running a general muck over things, hunting for the Key—whatever that was.  Buffy had earlier complained about the Council's interest in her plight and their resolution to conduct an evaluation of her behavior in a first-person basis.  Angelus was loose once more, this time accompanied by his sire whose affinity for destruction was only surpassed by his.  

They had Buffy.  He shuddered to think of what they would do to her.

Then he did think of it, and the images his mind produced were enough to convince him that Los Angeles was too small an arena to cover what he planned to do to them.

But that was too few and far between.  Any planning he did was second only to what the Watcher said in regard to all this.  There was no way the Scoobies saw this coming.  No way they could have anticipated something of such surprising magnitude.  He wondered if any of them, save the Slayer herself, even knew what Darla looked like.  As the story went, she was the only one present save Angel the day that he staked his sire.  For all intents and purposes, they likely begrudged her the first spaces of leeway by ignorance alone.  And if Buffy had recognized her, surprise would have lapsed her judgment.

He did not like to doubt her, but she was only human.

They would blame him.  There was no doubt behind that.  Despite whatever shell of bonding he and Xander had failingly attempted that night, despite his argument, despite everything, they would blame him.  And they certainly wouldn't entrust her retrieval in his very capable and more than willing hands.  That much didn't matter too greatly; rather, they had no choice.  Of everyone present, he was the one with the greatest potential of uncovering anything as far as her whereabouts.  

He could only hope the Watcher was keen enough and not blinded with rage to recognize that.  The others couldn't hope to come within a stones throw of Angelus.  Los Angeles was not the Hellmouth, and they weren't playing little games anymore.  Darla had been level with him—he knew enough to recognize that, and if Wolfram and Hart were implicated, then the situation was well and beyond their grasp.

Spike was the only left member of the Order that mattered a damn anymore.  And they had come for him as well; only they had had the courtesy to extend his invitation in form of an offer rather than kidnapping.

His first instinct was to go straight to Giles's residence; it took two seconds to rectify his plan and set his footing for the Magic Box.  That was the new and more popular place to group together for this sort of thing.  It was well after hours, but there wasn't a doubt in his mind that everyone would be sitting at the tables, digging into futile books and speaking loudly with accusatory undertones concerning his implication.

The light was on.  He was right.

In the midst of heated debate, he was able to walk through the doors unnoticed.  Bell and all.  The Scoobies were situated awkwardly across the foyer of the store.  Anya stationed at her customary location behind the cash register, Xander and Willow taking up table space with their persons, Giles at the staircase that led to the restricted section, and Tara in the forgotten corner, looking through old volumes of useless information.

They were shouting at each other.  A scene that would have provided some humor, given any other context.

Spike wasn't about to sit patiently and wait his turn.  That was asking for more trouble than he needed, especially under given circumstances.  Instead, he cleared his throat and effectively sliced through the forums of voices being strewn back and forth with the invasion of an alien brogue.  All eyes fell on him almost instantly.

There wasn't going to be time for formalities.  In and out.  With any bloody luck.

"'Lo all," he said, glancing around the sea of blank stares that answered his call.  "Jus' wanted to drop by an' say firstly…" His gaze focused on Willow and Xander, who were looking at him with near reverence, "I bloody told you so, an' secondly, I'm gonna be outta town for a few days.  I'll drop you all a line from LA."

With that, he turned to leave.

If only it could be so simple.

"Stop," Giles ordered, command in his voice alerting everyone within propinquity that he was answering to his inner Ripper.  And yet, there was a funny note embedded in his tone.  An almost whim of understanding…but that couldn't be right.  "Spike…you saw Drusilla in town earlier tonight?"

Civilized conversation from the Watcher?  This was highly suspicious.  The peroxide vampire glared doubtfully at Harris and the redhead, but the gaze he received in turn was accommodating and desperate.  

"No, I got wind that she was in town," he replied, turning back slowly.  "A li'l birdie dropped by my crypt to speak her piece.  Offer me a bloody offer I wasn' s'posed to refuse.  She mentioned Dru was out an' about.  Which brings me back to the 'I told you so.'"

"It was Darla," Willow said softly.  "You saw Darla."

"Kinda left that part out with your friendly warning," Xander added, his tone blatantly embittered.  It was more by self-actualization and nothing he hadn't expected, but the charge stung nonetheless.

Spike's eyes widened.  "Oh, tha's right.  Blame the vamp.  Forget that I risked my bloody head racin' across town to tip the lot of you off as to what was in the airs.  But _oh no, _you couldn't help but make a scathing remark at my expense 'stead of givin' me the sodding benefit of a doubt—"

"There isn't time to worry with particulars," Giles snapped, effectively silencing everyone.  "Spike, just tell us what you know."

A sigh.  "Y'know, this is gonna slow me down."

"Just tell us!  Buffy is gone, and for all we know—"

His face fell.  So that was that.  They had taken her.  They had really taken her.  He had known, but hearing it made it all the more final.  All the more authentic.  And the danger escalated in suspension.  Darla and Drusilla had taken the Slayer, and God knows what all they intended to do with her.

"—and the only lead we have is an arbitrary report that you supplied Xander and Willow with earlier this evening.  Which, by the way…" The Watcher pivoted furiously to the aforementioned two.  "I can't _believe _you disregarded something as monumental as Drusilla's presence in Sunnydale.  After all, Spike is—"

"A vampire and completely in love with her," Xander returned hotly.  "One that wants us dead, or have we forgotten?  Why should we have believed him?  Like he'd really warn us about Dru being in town."

"It did seem kinda wiggy," Willow conceded.  "But we should've listened."

"You're bloody right you should have!" Giles was pacing now, and it looked truly bizarre.  Bizarre, but not out of line.  Thus far, the one person Spike expected to be grilled by was seemingly siding with him.  That was subject to change but encouraging nonetheless.  

As though sensing his digression, the Watcher stopped once more and turned to him.  "Darla visited you."

It was not a question.

"Yeh," Spike replied self-consciously.  "Jus' up an' showed outta the bloody blue.  Well, more to the fact that she was waitin' for me to get home.  Gave me the low down on how she was mojo'ed back to the land of the livin', so to speak, an' offered me a position with her an' Dru back in LA."

"And _that _prompted you to come and warn us?" Xander shook his head.  "I'm still not buying it, Bleach Boy.  I know we went a round of pool, but that's not enough to convince me that you wouldn't wish us dead in a heartbeat."

"Maybe _you," _he growled.  "Listen, I don' know why I did it, all right?"  Little lie here and there never hurt anyone…in theory.  "'S prolly communicable from bein' around the lot of you do-gooders.  Jus' know that I'm not yankin' any chains around here.  What you see is what you bloody get.  Darla's involved with this law firm called Wolfram an'—"

"Hart," Giles finished softly.

All eyes fell on him.

"What and What?" Willow repeated.

"Wolfram and Hart," Anya supplied.  "Very evil bunch.  I've done business with them before."

And no one seemed that _that _statement deserved consideration.  Bloody typical. The peroxide vampire heaved a sigh, shook his head, and gazed intently at the elder man of the group.  "Y'know 'bout it, then?"

"Quite.  The Watcher's Council has kept tabs on its developments ever since it altered shape, back at the turn of the century, I believe."  Giles settled against the counter, glasses falling second naturedly into his waiting handkerchief.  "I can't believe…they are likely the only…only _anything, _really, that would have the power to revive a vampire from the beyond."

"Ummm…" Xander waved a hand expectantly.  "Angel?"

"We verified that he was brought back by the Powers, and it was for redemption.  A quest of sorts to be measured and esteemed through actions that justified all that he…well, it was long and complicated, and I don't have time to go into it now." The Watcher glanced upward.  "The Powers would have no such motive to bring back a vampire with the reputation that Darla has, especially without the additive windfall of a soul." 

"Yeh, well, 's safe to say that the Powers have bollixed everythin' up squarely," Spike returned.  "'Cause accordin' to Darla, Angelus is back."

"He boinked her?!" Willow all but shrieked.

A chuckle at that.  "No.  There are other, less pleasant ways, way I hear it."

"Mayor Wilkins attempted to remove his soul through a mage," Giles reminded her softly.  "Chances are, Wolfram and Hart have similar connections."

"They wanted the Order back in full," Spike continued.  "An' they wanted the Slayer."

"Why?"

"I don' know, but Darla thought it was a bloody brilliant idea.  Came up here, decided to distract me…twice…an' now…" He shook his head again.  "I don' know exactly how it all went down, all right?  When I got to my crypt that firs' time, she was there.  Gave me the full of what was goin' on, offered me a position up in LA with her an' the Great Poof that I declined.  Even offered to rid me of my zapper."  He pointed demonstratively to his cranium, even if elaboration wasn't needed.  "Then she mentioned Dru an' their plans concernin'—"

"I _so _do not like where this is going," Xander intervened shortly. "What _possible_ reason would have you decline a package _that _extensive?  The chip included?  Hell, I'm not evil and it's sounding like a good deal to _me. _Something's not right here.  Something's _really _not right."

"H-he has a p-p-point," Tara offered from the corner, the first bit she had spoken at all.  He softened instantly at the interruption, obeying whatever inner whim that forewarned the Witch was to be treated delicately, despite all other misgivings.  "No offense or anything, b-but you really don't have a reason to be here at all, do you?"

He had a reason.  By God, he had a reason.  He just knew it was wrong and wouldn't win him any friends.

"'S personal," he replied, hoping that would be the end of it.

It wasn't.

"What's personal?!" Harris was all but screaming now.  "I know everything I said earlier about change and the like, but it's null and void now.  Drusilla and Darla waltz into town, offer you everything you've claimed to want for the past year, kidnap Buffy, and you say that you had _nothing_ to do with it?"

"I didn't."

Willow intervened at that, her tone less demanding, but equally concerned.  "Then why didn't you mention this earlier?  If you'd said Darla was alive—"

That was rich.

"Don' even try to shift the blame here.  You're the bloody sods who lost your Slayer!  Now you're all out an' about, lookin' for someone to blame."  He shook his head with a huff of ill-amusement.  "Look no further than a soddin' mirror, ladies an' gents.  I would join you, but I don' reflect."

"That's what you call ironic," Anya supplied.

"Listen, I din't come here to waste time squabblin'."  Spike sighed intently and began backing for the door once more.  "Even 'f I knew it was sodding inevitable.  The lot of you 'ave your fair share to worry with here.  Nibblet an' the Council of Wankers to top."

Giles's eyes narrowed.  "How do you know about that?"

"Slayer told me earlier," he replied absently.  "'ve outed myself already, but no one else here has a stone's throw chance in Hell to get close to any of 'em, especially 'f they know you're comin'.  I'm headin' to LA to get Buffy home—"

"That's. It." Harris jumped to his feet and paraded forward.  "You know how much I'm trusting you right now?  Zero.  That's how much.  You suddenly go from caring not at _all _to caring so much that you're going to go to Los Angeles to…what?  Play the hero?  I'm not buying it.  At all.  This all seems way too convenient and especially given what you and—"

Spike sighed and rolled his eyes.  "You really think 'f I had any intention of takin' Darla up on her offer, I'd've come here at all?"

The boy was forced into reflective silence.

"Tha's right.  The lot of you can think what you like.  I'm leavin' tonight for LA."

"Where will you go?" Giles intervened.  He held up a hand before a reply could be voiced.  "Understand that I am not condoning this in any way.  I don't trust you, I never have, and I never will.  Like Xander, I am of the belief that this is all too coincidental to be exactly that.  But I am also willing to supply that should you be telling the truth, your presence in Los Angeles would be the best option."

Willow's eyes alighted in protest.  "But—"

"Spike is connected to the Order.  That is more than any of us can say.  And should he be lying, there truly is no more damage to be done than what was done."  A sigh rolled off the Watcher's shoulders.  "Buffy is gone, in the hands of two, soon-to-be three, very ruthless, legendary vampires.  We cannot be in two places at once.  With Glory here and—"

"Glory?  Glory?  We're bringing up Glory?" Xander demanded incredulously.  "Who cares about Glory?  We have bigger problems at the minute!  If Chip's Ahoy is going to Los Angeles, then—"

"He goes alone."  Giles's gaze had not altered from the vampire's in the slightest.

"We can't trust him!"

Spike rolled his eyes again.

"I know that.  But it appears that we have no choice."  The Watcher stepped forward again, solemn.  "Where will you go?"

Finally a question he could answer without having to reveal something personal.

"Angel Investigations," Spike replied immediately.  "'F Peaches 'asn't torn it to shreds by now.  I'd wager that Cordelia an' that li'l mixed chap have all the precautionaries on what to do in such a bloody bleak scenario.  Start there an' work my way up."

"Spike." Giles's gaze was level with him now, and he stood not two feet away.  "I want you to listen to me very, very carefully.  Should anything happen to Buffy, anything at all; I am going to hold you personally responsible.  I don't give a bleeding fuck if you are involved or not.  Something happens to her, it's going to happen to you, too.  Do you understand me?"

It was a rare day when the Watcher used such raw language.  

Today seemed to be the king of rare days.

"I get you, old man," the peroxide vampire replied.  It was nothing he didn't expect.  Nothing he wouldn't demand if he were in the opposing position.  Nothing he didn't respect Giles for immensely, even if that went forever unvoiced.

"You are to remain in constant contact with us."

"'Course."

There was something else, but it wouldn't be said here.  

"I don't like this," Willow announced shakily, holding up a hand to calm whatever objection was ready on Spike's lips.  "Not that I don't trust you…well, I don't trust you, but you get me.  I don't understand why we have to be sitting ducks.  Can't we be standing ducks?  Or flapping ducks?  Or rushing-to-help-Buffy ducks?  I just don't get it…especially where Glory is concerned.  Without the Slayer, what exactly do we hope to accomplish?  Throw rocks at her?"

At that, the rough front that Giles had been depending on from the beginning started to crumple, and the first strains of humanly worry leaked through.  "There are elements…" he said slowly, "that have to be taken into consideration.  Things that involve Glory and her conquest…that I cannot disclose.  Here."  He added the last with a pointed look in the vampire's direction.  "Let's just leave it at that for now.  We will discuss the details later."

The peroxide vampire couldn't agree more.  "Right," he snapped.  "Save your sodding dramatics.  'S of no interest to me."  He turned to the Witch.  "Don' get your knickers in a twist.  Whatever the old man has up his leave'll be common knowledge two seconds after I walk out the bloody door."

"Wait it out," Giles concurred with a nod.  In such circumstances, there was no point to denying motive, especially when it remained rather unambiguous.  "Spike, a word in the back, please."

There would be no refuting; nothing to appease the tiny voice that protested this discussion in itself was a perfect example of why the Scoobies were daft all the way around, despite their ability to foil every Big Bad to date.  They were wasting too much time with particulars.  However, he nodded his compliance and made to follow the Watcher, refusing to waver even when they moved into the seeming seclusion of the Slayer's training room.

In all honesty, he expected the old man to lose his still unspoken support.  He expected to be shoved against the nearest surface with a hand at his throat, complete with a stream of long-winded, not-so-empty threats that centered on a matter of a decent staking.

Once more, he was surprised.  Despite all his reasoning and insistence, Giles was far from reaching a point by the time he got him alone.  The Watcher took to pacing quietly, brow furrowed as though lost in deep reflection.  He made eye contact a few times, looked willing and ready to speak, but lost his train of thought, or reasoning, before the words could know the breath of air.  It was more than obvious that he had something of importance to relate and more than one reservation about relating it.  And, notwithstanding irritation, Spike couldn't say he blamed him.  

However, that didn't mean he favored standing around until the old man grew a pair.  With every second he wasted, the further the Slayer grew from hindsight.  "So, what is it?" he asked after a few seconds.  "Wanna lay me down with the ground rules?  Do not touch the Slayer?  Do not look at the Slayer?  Do not interact with the Slayer?  Do not—"

"Shut up."

"Do not shut up?  There's a new one."

"I mean, it Spike.  This…" Giles pressed his hand against a wall to support his crumpling weight, the full signs of his fatigue leaking through to full glory.  It was nearly worth a coo of sympathy.  The strain of concern pressing into his brow overwhelming on levels of human candor that remained an overall mystery.  "What you are about to do…God, I can't believe I'm trusting you to—"

"Trust me or not, mate, I'm doin' it."

"Why?  If I knew why, perhaps I could find some ease.  I just don't see what possible motive you would have to go to Buffy's aid."

The vampire sighed heavily.  How the hell was he supposed to answer that question and simultaneously put the man's worries to rest?  There was too much that he still did not know, did not understand, and he rather doubted that a quick 'I've had the sudden desire to shag the Slayer senseless' retort would score any bonus points.  He had to hand it to Giles; he was concerned in all the right areas.  Asking all the right questions.  Spike's sudden bout of anxiety where any of the Scoobies were implicated merited a good period of observation.

"Honestly, mate," he began with another sigh, unknowing where to go from there or why he was speaking at all.  "I don' know.  I can't explain anythin' right now.  But I'm goin' outta her interest, not mine.  Trust me, things'd be a lot easier 'f I could say bugger all an' let 'em have her.  Somewhere along the way, I wager I grew a conscience."

"Forgive me if that's not at all reassuring."

"Well, this isn't the firs' time this sort've thing's happened where the lot of you are concerned.  That one time that Glinda the Second's magic went all wonky, makin' you blind to everythin' that wiggled with demon insides?"  He waited for Giles's recollection before continuing.  "Yeh.  Walked in, saw the Slayer strugglin' on the floor, an' leapt in to save the bloody day.  Don' ask me why—she certainly din't.  Din't even get a thank you for that."  Another brief break.  "I don' like a one of you, you know.  But I jus'…I can't let them have her.  Angelus an' Dru were bad enough.  Throw Darla in—Darla with a wicked grudge 'cause of the great sodding love affair that was the Slayer and Peaches—an' I don't wanna think about what's gonna go down."

"This is about possession, then?  She's the Slayer, therefore you get to kill her?"

If only it were that easy.

"'F it makes you sleep easier to tell yourself that…well, I don' rightly care what makes you sleep easier."  Spike shook his head and headed for the door again.  "'m all you've got, an' you know it.  An' you also know I don' welch on deals, no matter how much it twists your insides to admit it.  I helped Buffy before.  Before there was a chip.  Before my hatred of the lot of you grew to colossal proportions.  Helped her 'cause I can't bloody stand Angelus.  Still can't.  An' he's not gonna 'ave forgotten that."  Another brief pause as he collected his bearings.  "'m all you've got," he said again.  "Regardless of whatever uglies there are between me an' Peaches, I have a helluva better chance of gettin' close to 'em than any of you do.  An' I'd know where to look.  More than Wolfram an' Hart an' that sham of a detective agency my wankerish grandsire was chiefin'.  I know them all more than any of you bloody Watchers ever can.  I'm on your side, Rupert.  I'm on your side in this.  Bygones be bygones an' all that rot.  You get me?"

  There was a hefty pause as Giles considered this, even if his answer was yes.  He had no choice, as Spike had so aptly observed, but for whatever reason, having passage granted suddenly seemed like the best idea anyone could muster.  

"When the Council arrives," the Watcher continued ruefully, effectively answering the inquiry with a non-answer.  It seemed in the best interest, "I will not mention what has transpired.  If they get involved, things could become even harrier than they already are.  But if the news they present about Glory is dire, there is every chance that I will be taking a leave of America with Joyce and Dawn."

That didn't make any sense.  "What?"

"I can't tell you any more than that, other than I hope to have the others with me.  Willow and Tara have school, of course, and I would not want to endanger them.  And as hesitant as I am to abandon the Hellmouth in a time of crisis, I see no alternative as our Slayer has…" Giles stopped again.  "If it comes to that, you will have to contact me in London."

"You realize you're makin' about as much sense as Dru on a good day."

"I can't tell you more."

Spike frowned, then shrugged and reached for his cigarettes.  "Right.  So 'f you decide to make a great escape, how do I reach you?"

"I'll give you the London number when you contact us."  The Watcher glanced down.  "I hope it will not come to that, but I am seeing no alternative.  I nearly suggested that you take Dawn with you and leave her with her father, but it would not be in her interest to take her from one element of danger and leave her in another.  And, regardless of my not knowing the man, the tales I have heard leave very little room for heartfelt warm fuzzies."

This was still not making any sense, but the vampire thought it better to simply nod and move along.  There was too much to accomplish without worrying with a matter that seemed to be under wraps.  "Right," he said.  "I'll be in touch."

"You better."  Spike headed for the back exit and was not surprised when his move did not inspire an objection.  To leave through the front would openly welcome more questions, and there was no time for that.     

Not when so much was at stake.

"One more thing," Giles said softly without turning.  "Please…tell her…"

"I will."

"How do you know—"

"Because I've seen every sodding made-for-tv drama this bleeding world has to offer.  'F my firs' guess is off, I'm sure to get it within the top three."  Spike grinned lightly but the man still wasn't looking.  He didn't blame him.  "Take care of yourself, Rupert."

There was no answer, and it was just as well.  Before another beat of wasted air could pass between them, the vampire was gone.

Setting out for the beginning by starting at the end.

**To be continued in Chapter Eight: ****_Path of Thorns_****…**


	9. Path of Thorns

**Chapter Eight**

**Path of Thorns**

The air was sharp and cold against her skin, and the first thought that came to mind was, naturally, that Dawn had been playing with the thermostat again.  The past few weeks had seen a silent war between them when it came to controlling the atmospheric conditions of the house, and while Buffy was very pro keeping things nice and cool to conflict with the hot weather that was outside, her sister seemed to think that it wasn't _cold _if it wasn't snowing.  

An inward grumble.  She would complain to Mom, but there was no point when fighting a battle so destined to be lost.  Dawnie was the baby of the family, and unsurprisingly got everything her way.  Even if that _everything _included a contractual obligation to have the temperate conditions rival the North Pole.

It wasn't for a few more minutes before she noted the pain stretching from her calves to her hamstrings, the awkward soreness of her shoulder, and reopened, albeit mostly healed wound in her gut from where the random 80s vamp had staked her with her own weapon a few weeks back.  The cold air did a number on her—nipping and commanding her body with more self-awareness than was rightly owed upon first awakening.  It was then that she noticed she wasn't in bed—rather propped against something hard.  A wall, most likely.  She also noted that the soreness in her arms was due to their being pulled behind her, wrists bound with a manacle hardness that itched against the skin.  Her feet were tied in a similar fashion, stretched with faux luxury in front of her. A blast of trepidation seized her most innate understanding, and she realized belatedly that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Any other person would have waited a few minutes before opening her eyes.  Buffy had no such reservation.  Even if the light did force her to look away just as quickly.  Damn light.  She never got used to that—the first sting of brightness after a long sleep.  A few more seconds passed before she tried again.  Carefully this time.  

And immediately wished she had not.

There were a variety of things she would have expected.  Harmony, for one, even if her accommodations weren't nearly this uncomfortable.  Despite the recent quiet from Spike's love slave, it was not entirely out of prospect that the blonde idiot would try something else.  Hire a professional to get the job done proper.  Glory was the most obvious, but her surroundings quickly betrayed that this was not up to par with the resident hell-bitch.  Granted, she had yet to explore her foe's digs personally, but none of what she saw rang true with what she had previously deciphered concerning her current nemesis.  

First of all, Glory wouldn't have humans do her dirty work.  And Buffy was surrounded by humans.  All professionally dressed: decked out in attire that appeared to label them as a security team.  Had she broken into a bank or something last night?  There were far too many blank spots to own up to, but even in her Beer Bad stage, she didn't reckon that she would have coordination to even consider something so audacious.

That and she didn't remember drinking all that much.  

The men surrounding her all bore the same grave expression.  Grave but not accusing.  Buffy took this to mean that her presence…wherever she was, was not by choice, nor her doing.  The men also possessed a variety of blunt instruments, utility belts with even more fancy toys, and a few in back were clutching guns.  

This was not good.

"Okay," Buffy greeted with a groan, attempting to stretch before deciding that was a very bad idea.  "I'm gonna go out on a limb and say I'm not in Kansas anymore."

No one moved or flinched.  It was almost as though she hadn't spoken at all.

Better to keep talking.  Perhaps if she continued to speak, someone would reply and she would get an idea of what the fuck was going on.  "Get it?  Kansas?"  Nothing.  "Wizard of Oz?"  Nothing. "Do my stylish pop culture references go completely over your heads, or are you all mute?"

 Then something.

"Ms. Summers."  A male voice—an unknown male voice—that seemed to come behind the men keeping her at weary bay.  The intonation suggested a laid back nature, but she knew better than to trust people based on brogue.  Nevertheless, the voice evidently possessed the power to breech the impenetrable force that was the security team.  In a minute, a very pleasant, if not overly relaxed man was within sight.  He was dressed splendidly in what was most likely a ten thousand dollar suit, had very pretty chestnut hair, and a curious smile that was neither threatening, nor pleasant.  "Welcome to Wolfram and Hart."

Blink.

"To…huh?  Who are you?  And what the _hell _am I—"

"My apologies.  I am Lindsey McDonald, attorney at law.  You are a guest in the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart, law offices for the…well, I suppose I don't have to clarify with you on the sometimes-unexplained."  

Buffy tried to stretch once more and was again met with a surge of unexpected pain.  "You people sure have a funny definition of guest," she snapped.  "What the hell am I doing here?  What's going on?  Where's Dawn?"

"One question at a time, please," Lindsey said, holding up a hand.  "Firstly, you are here because the late Holland Manners thought your…expertise in certain areas would be very beneficial for the firm.  I apologize for the barbarian manner in which you were obtained, but Wolfram and Hart does not have a history of taking no for an answer.  We run in a low-risk fashion, you see.  As to what is going on…that will be revealed in time.  And Dawn, your sister, I'm assuming, is safely in Sunnydale.  Our interest does not lie with her in the slightest."

It took a few minutes, but she managed to fight to her feet without use of her limbs, and despite the candid professionalism that McDonald portrayed, it was obvious that he was impressed.  Buffy heaved a deep breath of exertion, tossing a dubious glance to the security team surrounding her.  "Okay, I don't know what's going on here, but let me tell you up front that is not smart to piss me off.  And right now, you're riding a one-way ticket to Pissed City.  Whatever it is that you want, it's not for sale.  Thanks so much.  I'll just be on my way."

She indulged one step, or half step as her feet were still bound.  There would be no leaving in these conditions unless she wanted to wobble her way to freedom, but in any regard, it proved to be a mistake.  The nearest official seized opportunity and smashed the instrument he was carrying against her cheekbone: a harsh blow that elicited a strangled cry and propelled her back to the wall with more impact than she had been expecting, despite better judgment.  

"That's enough," Lindsey ordered, apparently unraveled.  The simple demeanor he had betrayed only seconds before had melted completely, and concern marred his brow with shades of irritation.  "Everyone out."

"I take it," Buffy coughed, stretching best to her ability against the wall.  "That when you say 'everyone', you don't mean me."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.  The instant they were alone, he knelt beside her and helped her to her feet, assisting her to a chair that sat before his desk.  His desk that was now in view thanks to the absence of the weapon-wielding buffoons.  "The men were supposed to be there just for show.  I told them that you weren't to be harmed…" His eyes fell to the faint spots of red leaking through her shirt.  "Anymore than you have been already."

"Sorry if that's not at all reassuring." Buffy cocked her head.  "I don't suppose you'll let me out of these…what are they?  Cuffs?"

"Enchanted manacles.  The company always keeps them in stock.  Inescapable unless you have the key.  Which I do."  Lindsey sighed and pivoted to the front of his desk so that he was near her and took a seat at the edge.  "And again, I'm sorry.  I'm already endangering more than I rightly need to right now, and not to absolutely kill the cliché, none of this was my idea."

Of this?  There was a this?

It was time to drop the formalities, if there had been any at all.  "None of what?"

"Holland Manners was the former Division Head of Special Projects," he began conversationally.  "He was a visionary, I must say.  For the past two years, the firm has suffered…well, not really suffered, but endured the attentions of someone I believe you know quite well.  My condolences in that regard."  There was no mistaking the innate bitterness that seeped through his tone at that.  Again sincerity.  It was bizarre to hear someone who had admittedly kidnapped her from her town without anything of a forward explanation to sound sincere in his lament.  "I'm sure you'd recognize him.  Tall, dark hair, always brooding, occasionally bumpy in the—"

"Angel?"  Oh God.  "This is about Angel?"

"In some respects, yes.  Angel has been a thorn in Wolfram and Hart's side ever since he arrived in Los Angeles.  While the dent he has made in our interest remains a minimal at most, he still proved to be…well, extremely annoying."  Lindsey stood and began walking around the office, moving behind her so that her eyes couldn't follow him.  "Getting in the way, messing with our projects…generally being an all around ass, though I'm sure that hardly fails to surprise."

She hated it that he was right.  In so many ways, it didn't surprise.  But she wouldn't admit as much.

"Last year at the end of our spring term, Holland concocted a brilliant idea to keep Angel off our backs so that the more important projects could be granted the attention they deserve."  Another sigh and Lindsey wheedled back into sight.  When he sat down again, she noticed for the first time that he was one-handed—completely dependent on his left, and had the sinking suspicion that Angel was responsible.  "Believe me, I never thought it would go this far."

"How far?"

"Your involvement…I never intended…" Another sigh.  "I don't have much time to brief you, Ms. Summers.  Things have since happened that forced the control out of our hands and into…well; I suppose you can call them clients.  And trust me, when they learned the extensity of Holland's vision, they were very eager to jump to the opportunity to bring you into it.  My authority as far as these matters go has reached its end."

That was not good.  Not good at all.  Despite the circumstances, Buffy could tell already that whatever her fate had in store, she would much rather be in the company of this man than whoever he planned to hand her over to.  He was human at least, and his human conscience was obviously leaking through.  "Please," she said softly.  "Please, I can't be here.  Whatever this is, you're going to have to find someone else.  There's…my sister.  I can't…Can you _please _just tell me what I'm—"

"If I could, I would."  And again, she believed him.  Honesty from the conventional bad guy was not a good.  When the evils of the world quivered, something even more malevolent was surely around the bend.  "In the meantime, I am going to do everything in my power to see to it that you…well, I'm going to do everything in my power to help you.  Believe me, I never thought I'd be so wrong at something that it'd come to this.  It has."

"Come to _what?  _Just tell me what the _fuck _is going on, give me something pointy, and I'll—"

"It's not that simple."

"It's _always _that simple.  Believe me, if it weren't, I'd know it by now." 

Lindsey sighed.  "With all due respect, Ms. Summers, you're not entirely familiar with how we do business in Los Angeles.  This isn't what you are used to.  And trust me, they aren't going to go soft on you.  You've formed some pretty powerful enemies doing whatever it is that you do, and—"

"Whatever it is that I do?" she all but screeched.  "I do more than you could possibly—"

"I didn't mean to degrade your work, and I certainly don't want to get you into anymore trouble than you're in already."  McDonald ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.  "But this…this is nonnegotiable.  Completely out of my hands.  I've risked enough asking to have any time with you at all.  Do you understand?"

"I understand perfectly.  I understand that _you _don't grasp the consequences of what will happen if you don't let me go.  Right.  Now."

"I can't help you," Lindsey said again.  "I've already done more than I should.  Said more than I should.  This is my neck, you understand?  I don't even care for these people and I…if the Senior Partners don't demand my life for this, they're going to demand something else."

"What the _hell _are you talking about?"

There was a minute's consideration as the man paced back and forth, effectively torn.  The look on his face symbolized the diagnosis of the human condition.  Worried, fretful, and completely out of sync with whatever it was he was trying to grasp.  If circumstances were different, she would have pitied him.  But the circumstances stood.  She was here, made prisoner by means she did not understand, and lost in the way of things.  "It's not just your boyfriend that the firm objected to," he began, and immediately she flustered with objection.  

"He's not—"

"—your boyfriend.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  Trust me, aside Lilah Morgan or the person down in records, I don't believe anyone knows more about Angel than the man himself.  And he has been a…considerable annoyance."

"As you've said.  Stop wasting—"

"His associates have also proven a liability to the firm."  Lindsey turned away as though ashamed.  "And as you might have guessed, the firm has a way of dealing with its various obstacles, including arbitrary personnel.  I have taken action against our policies before at great personal risk, and again, I went out of my way to protect people that I do not particularly care for.  This leaves me subject to investigation; I would not be admitting as much if I had not already been charged."  He stopped again and shook his head.  "You were brought in when you shouldn't have been, but at the same time, you can't possibly have any idea what you're asking me to do."

Buffy cocked her head unsympathetically.  "Well, maybe if you actually told me something rather than keeping with the lame excuses—"

McDonald stepped forward with a sudden, unexpected incursion of authority.  "I can't tell you anything.  Haven't you been listening at all?  It's out of my hands.  The project is far out of my hands.  Ms. Summers—"

"Stop with that.  The name's Buffy, _Lindsey.  _Use it."

"Fine."  His eyes narrowed and he mimicked her brogue with a note of whimsy.  It was unintentional, but made him seem more human nonetheless.  Despite the circumstances, she found herself reassured.  The more human he was, the more chance she had to relating to him on an interpersonal level.  _"Buffy."_

"Okay."  Reluctantly, she forced herself to relax.  It was becoming more and more apparent that struggling and name-calling wasn't about to get her anywhere.  Of course, it hadn't exactly worked in the past, but the Slayer wasn't accustomed to encountering a disinclined baddie.  Whatever else was presented, it was more than obvious that Lindsey McDonald did not want to see her hurt.  He was going to outrageous extremes to ensure her safety—he had made that very clear.  And despite her current disposition, she saw no reason to doubt him.  "We're getting somewhere."

"So it would seem."

"Okay then."  Potential for rational thought.  This was progress. "Instead of trying to explain to me what you can't explain to me, start at the beginning.  Is there anything that you _can _tell me?"

"You are familiar with the Order of Aurelius."

It was most definitely a statement.  She had endured too many sessions with Giles of a similar nature.  However, that didn't mean she could recline from seizing the set-up provided.  For someone who claimed to know her great first love as well as he claimed, he certainly had a liking for the obvious statements.

Buffy had the uncomfortable premonition that such observations, however bothersome, were more for her reassurance than his protocol.  But she scoffed anyway.  There was no way, despite fluency, that she would willingly reveal her weariness.  "Familiar?" she repeated incredulously.  "Hon, remember?  I _dated _the most…well, biggest—not that he was…I dated one of them.  You've reminded me of my relationship with Angel several times now.  More than that, I've had another trailing me the past two years.  _Familiar _with the Order?  Hell, I could write a book on it."  A pause at that.  "Not that I would, or anything.  That would require mass amounts of research, and I already have enough on my plate."

"That being the case-in-point.  Regretfully, William the Bloody—"

Her eyes widened expectantly, and she felt a rush of eluded hope, and even more disquieting repose.  The same provided whenever something of familiarity is mentioned in unnerving situations.  "Spike?"

"Yes." Lindsey frowned, studying her more intently.  "Spike turned down the offer that was proposed when you were retrieved from Sunnydale.  Evidently—"

"What offer?"

"I don't know the particulars.  Only that the opportunity to rejoin the Order and have his more bothersome attributes removed presented itself, and he showed little interest in following them through."  His eyes narrowed.  "The chip, for instance."

What?  Wait.  That made absolutely no sense.

"Spike was offered the chance to have his chip removed and he _turned it down?"_

"It came at a price."

"What price?  Two months ago, he would have and nearly did kill to get that thing out of his head."  

A small smile at that, as though she was abandoned on the outs of a horrendously funny joke.  "That is not my place to say," McDonald decided, grinning still.  "But one of the side effects of his agreement, had he complied, would be his removal from Sunnydale and all known associates to correlate with his rejoining of the Order.  That was Holland's objective, you see.  When Angel refused to play by our rules, we…well, changed the rules.  As well as the mission."

The Slayer's face fell.  Cold and aback with unwanted comprehension.  "You want Angelus."

"We—"

"That's why I'm here."  She shook her head in astonishment.  "I don't believe this.  _This _is the mission prerogative?  You can't begin to know what kind of pressure I'm under back home, and you snatched me up to…what?  Be your whore?  I don't think so."

"That isn't our objective at all—"

"Then tell me what is!  Angel and I are not involved anymore, and will never be again.  If I'm not here to get him to go all grrrr and fangy, then what the _hell _am I supposed to—"  

There was a vampire in the room.  Buffy jumped to immediate awareness, breaking all connection with her objective and straining in her seat to turn.  Amazing how one could turn from forethought to the most innate instincts on mere suggestion alone.  It was not Angel—her senses, while dulled where he was concerned, were still reasonably pointed and functional—but the power beneath it made her shudder.  She had only once before gauged a vampire's presence alongside his authority.  One night long, long ago in an alley outside the Bronze.

"My, my," the voice behind her drawled.  Chilling and familiar.  A brogue she had not heard in forever.  "She certainly thinks highly of herself."  There was a second's flash of blonde hair, then she was in view.  A face four, nearly five years dead.  The woman behind her introduction.  The beginning and end of the constancy within her understanding.  A small, malicious smile spread across opposing lips as the figure reclined comfortably against the lawyer's desk.  "Doesn't she, Lindsey?"

Snap.  Buffy was not taken aback to the point where she didn't follow guidance and turn in the aforementioned direction, but it was difficult to look away.  And still, when she saw Lindsey's eyes, her blood chilled.  Bad guys were not supposed to look that genuinely concerned for hostages.  He had already broken too many of the inherent Bad Guy rules for additional slips to be anywhere near accommodating.  "I have ten minutes left, Darla.  That was our agreement."

"I'm changing the agreement."

"You don't—"

"I'm changing the agreement, darling.  Living with it."  Such prowess and authority.  No one was going to dare argue with that tone.  The vampire had not looked away from her query, rather leaned forward with a wicked smirk.  "It's time for our guest to be escorted to her quarters and…broken in."

Buffy shook her head, grasped entirely with unreason.  Every nerve in her body numbed with raw astonishment, and at last her more favorable motor skills decided to represent themselves. "I don't…" she stuttered unintelligently.  "You…I saw you…you…Angel, he—"

Darla smiled condescendingly.  "Aww, how sweet.  You think the laws of time and raison d'être bend only for your precious Angel?  Not very quick, is she?" The last was most definitely directed at the lawyer, but the vampire refused to alter her gaze from the prime objective.  "You really think your boy was the only one worthy of such reanimation?  You think he was so important that none others within reason deserve such…exaltation?  You're a fool, Buffy.  You didn't know us when we last met, and time has not worked in your favor."  At last, she turned her eyes to McDonald, who remained stationary and unwilling to move in the corner.  "What is the first rule of engagement, Lindsey?  Do you know?"

"Avoid avoidance behavior," he replied softly.

Darla's eyes narrowed and she redirected her attention.  "I was going more for 'know thine enemy', but that works."  She tsked and shook her head.  "You're so ignorant…I can really see why he found you as compelling as he did."  Buffy flinched and immediately hated herself for it; the notion enough to inspire a smile to the vampire's face as she reached out to thread her fingers through the Slayer's hair before the strands fanned and fell back into place.  "Angel always favored the weak-minded in life, and even more so after the gypsy whores rejuvenated his conscience.  His victims, though, as I remember followed the same pattern.  So much easier to find.  To fuck."  A whispered glint in her eyes, and the blonde leaned forward, simply bursting with unkempt glee.  "To kill."

The Slayer jerked again, recomposing herself best to her ability.  "Keep away from me."

"Sorry, dear.  That's no longer on the menu.  But I do believe Lindsey has had enough time trying to soften things up for you."  Darla glanced upward.  "And there will be no arguing.  Untie her.  We have a little…trip to make."

That was enough to silence her.  The prospect of being freed, even if it was fleetingly in hindsight, nearly made her eyes bulge out of her head.  There was no hint of deception behind the vampire's gaze, though that was hardly proof enough of eradication.  It didn't matter.  If even her legs were free, she had that much more opportunity to escape.  Find out whatever the matter was, alert Angel, and be on her way.

Back home.

It was too easy.  Much too easy.  But Darla was convinced.  More so to the point when Lindsey neared to undo her bonds.  Ankles first, arms second.  He whispered a warning into her ear not to try anything, but he couldn't honestly expect her to comply.  Not now.  Not with what lay ahead.  Not with what she had learned.  

Evidently, he did.  The instant the manacles released her wrists, the Slayer bounded to her feet and delivered a punch that sent him flying over the mahogany desk and twirled with a roundabout kick to dispatch the vampire.   Her more primal senses told her to search out a wooden weapon, but firsthand knowledge forewarned that a demon with Darla's instincts and experience would have at least thought that far ahead.  Thus she followed a humanly impulse instead, and bolted for the door. 

The blinding white of the hallways might have hampered her if she stopped to realize her eyes weren't quite adjusted yet, and in all fairness, the contrast between Lindsey's office and the world outside was considerable.  But Buffy was far from caring about the disparity of her surroundings.  Her objective was escape: everything else was simply a matter of consequence.

It was indeed a law office.  That was the most surprising thing.  Throughout McDonald's longwinded explanation of her dealings here, the Slayer had not quite fully accepted that she was in a building that was as open to the community as an everyday service.  The guards that had greeted her upon awakening seemed to be nonexistent, and the people she passed granted her with glances that would have suggested she was insane if she did not know very, very differently.

Something more than the obvious was wrong here.  No one was trying to stop her.  No one even bothered to call after her and bid her halt so that her torment would be lessened.

In later days, she would have time to consider her actions. 

A lot of time.

It happened so quickly it might as well have been a dream.  Reflexes called upon that she only had to use once in a blue moon, exacted by someone who knew her well enough to suss out her weaker points.  Something grasped her wrist out of the blink of an eye, and Buffy immediately pivoted to strike her assailant.  Before she could so much as take a breath, her wrists were bound behind her and she was pulled tightly to a broad, strong chest.

A very familiar chest.

"I knew," an equally recognizable voice drawled as she stuttered and twisted futilely, "that it was only a matter of time before you came running back into my arms.  Welcome home, sweetheart."

No.  It couldn't be.  It couldn't…

A strangled sob commanded her voice and she jerked once more.  His grip was too much for her.  Even with her Slayer strength, her muscles were still worn and rejuvenating.  Any extemporary attempt was useless. 

Funny how the smallest instance could send her spiraling three years back.

"A-Angel?"

He laughed as if she had said something thoroughly funny.  Time enough for her to register Darla's presence behind him.  The blonde vampire was grinning as well, a hand resting at his shoulder with such trained acquaintance that it caused the Slayer's breath to catch in her throat.  "What was I saying?" she asked rhetorically, eyes dancing.  "Oh yes.  So completely ignorant.  Do yourself a favor, Buff.  When you start to feel sleepy, go with it.  It'll be easier that way."

"But not nearly as much fun," Angelus chided.  

A retort was ready on her tongue.  She knew it was.  But something heavy fell against her before she could think to release it.  And then she was falling.  Again down the endless tunnel where the clock chimed no more.

All went black.

**To be continued in Chapter Nine: _Till We Run Out of Road_**** …**


	10. Till We Run Out Of Road

**Chapter Nine**

**Till We Run Out of Road**

This was not at all what he anticipated.

The trip thus far had greeted him with several complications.  Namely, Angel Investigations had not been where he left it, and no one seemed willing to discuss its new location.  It took every connection he had in Los Angeles, and given the notion that his reputation preceded him, it cost him more time than he would have liked.

Things didn't lighten up when his search ended.

He didn't know what he had been expecting.  A hug.  A scream.  A frying pan over the head.  The Hyperion was impressive, he admitted, but not impenetrable.  Given that the last time he visited the City of Angels, the lobby alone looked to be a haven of rats and the upstairs had a reputation that put his factory back in Sunnydale to shame.  From the outside looking in, though, a begrudging admittance conceded that his grandsire had done proper for himself.  It was most definitely an improvement from the two-bit offices that were in service upon last visit.   

Hotels were especially accommodating, and he considered it very thoughtful that the faithful staff had deemed it so for his usage.  

There were surface concerns, of course.  When Angelus was last loose, the first thing he did was scout out everything that made him reek of humanity.  This being the center of operations, he figured it would have been hit first at full blast.  However, the scent of blood was nowhere in the vicinity; at least not of the fresh, human variety.  The elder vampire might be lacking in his torturing methods come the new century, but there was always blood.  Always.  

Except there wasn't.  The place was clean.  As clean as a very large hotel could be.  And yet the address was right.  His informant—a lowlife demon by the name of Merle—assured him that this was the center of the Angel Investigations team, and he had no qualm in releasing the coordinates as Angelus would likely come after him next, and he would sleep easier if he knew someone of equal power was here to stop him.

Spike didn't disclose that his intentions in no way circulated stopping Angelus.  He wasn't going to allow himself to think that far ahead.  As long as the Slayer was unharmed, he was just as satisfied with anything else that happened in the city.

At least he told himself.

It was just minutes after sunset when he reached the hotel.  After peeking in and confirming that everyone, while most definitely there, were elsewhere, he made to move inward.

And was propelled a good ten feet back at his presumption.

"Bloody fuck!" he roared, more out of surprise than pain.  When he raised his head to gauge the invisible barrier, he was honestly surprised that the shield wasn't sparkling or something equally retarded.  The regular rules of vampiric entrance weren't supposed to apply to public accommodations, and even though he had been fool enough to test out his abilities on invitation hijinxes before, the ending result had never been as powerful.  

There was nothing.

In all rationality, it seemed probable that Angel would have cast some sort of invitation spell on the place to keep out all the nasty vamps that were out for his blood because of his treachery.  A rush of pride flushed through his system to think he might have inspired the new system.  All washed the next second with the realization that the Great Poof would see that as a form of weakness, and soul or not, he couldn't stand weakness.  He had nearly killed himself for appearing weak once—unfortunately stopped by his lady fair who simply couldn't allow him to die like that.

Why was anyone's guess.  

It occurred to him upon second approach that he might not be the most welcome face to wipe his feet at the door.  Well, they bloody well better appreciate it.  After all, in a roundabout way he was there to benefit them.  

He wondered arbitrarily if the Angel Investigations team had multiplied in employees since his visit last year.  Cordelia would be here, he knew.  The little halfling was another definite.  Both were way too faithful to the poofter to up and leave him because of something as miscellaneous as a squabble in payroll.

These hero-types were the same everywhere he went.

Spike brushed himself off and stepped up to the entryway once more, peering inside.  No difference.  The lobby was still vacant.  The upper hallways, best to his line of visibility, were empty as well.  The scents and presentiment that the hotel was inhabited lingered—perhaps even stronger than before.  

Back to the sodding basics.

"'Ello!" he shouted, his own Cockney brogue echoing back at him.  "Anyone in there?"

A few seconds.

Nothing.

"Oh sod it, I know damn well that everyone's home.  No use playin' hide an' go seek.  Come out an' greet your guest right an' proper."

Nothing.

It was time to resort to dirty warfare.

"Cordelia!  I 'ave one of your frilly li'l shirts an' I'm gonna rip it apart yarn by yarn 'till you come down an' bloody well _let me in!"_

At that, someone appeared at the veranda.  Someone with much shorter hair than he remembered but eyes that he would know anywhere.  A grin, unbidden, rose to his lips and he waved teasingly from the doorway.  "Knew you couldn't resist."

"Yeah, whatever," Cordelia Chase replied, rolling her eyes.  "I'm just coming down to tell you that 1) You're so not invited in and 2) You couldn't possibly have any of my clothing, because of the aforementioned number one.  Besides, you don't even know where I live."

"This big ambiguous hotel doesn' leave much to the imagination, luv."

"Yuck!  You think I _live _at work?  Puhlease.  Hasn't Angel told you anything?  Or are you just trying to wheedle an invitation over at my digs, 'cause I gotta tell you, that wouldn't do you any good, either."  Even from their respective distance, he could tell she was smiling rather proudly.  "Dennis would so kick your ass."

He rolled his eyes.  "Whatever.  Listen, Cordy, be a dear an'—"

"It's not gonna happen, Bleach Boy.  Deal with it."

"Oh for cryin'…I'm here to help you!"

Someone else was present now.  Someone who wasn't the little Irish bugger.  He took that as an affirmative to his earlier unvoiced query.  "I find that rather unlikely," a very British, twenty-year-younger-sounding-Giles said as a reasonably good-looking bloke took side next to the woman on the terrace.  "As we explained to Angelus earlier, we are well aware of what has happened, as well as the objective to—"

"So Angelus _did_ drop by here earlier?"  It wasn't so much a question as an observation.  Spike raised a hand to the invisible barrier and lightly skimmed the surface—just enough so that it tickled.  "Nice mojo.  Your handiwork, Cor?"

"I had some help."

"From the halfling I take it."  He rolled onto his toes to see further up the corridor, but it was no use.  "Guess he's comin' down next, eh?"

At that, a very somber beat flushed through the lobby, and he knew he had said something very wrong.

Deathly wrong.

Oh.  Best to change the subject.

"But I like it.  Very posh."  His hands dropped to his sides and he redirected his gaze to the duo, growing more aggravated.  "But highly unneeded.  I'm on your side, here!"

"You're a member of the Order of Aurelius," the man observed.

Spike's eyes widened comically and he felt his chest as though needing to verify his realism to satisfy any lingering doubts.  "You're kiddin'.  I am?  Well, isn't that neat.  You learn somethin' new every day.  Yeh, Dru already gave me the run through.  I should say, Darla gave me the run through, then Dru decided to reiterate.  But I bloody turned 'em down.  I'm here to help!"

"Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?"

"No, actually, for a girl.  This jus' 'appens to be a side-effect."  He tapped his cranium.  "All more besides, even 'f I did 'ave evil intentions, I have a cute li'l government chip that gives me a bloody buzzer of a shock 'f I so much as lift a finger against one of you humanly types.  You happy?  Now bloody well lemme in!"

Cordelia snickered.  "Yes, because we make a habit of trusting vampires based on word of mouth."  

"Wanna come down 'ere so I can give yeh a demo?"

"Don't think so."

"Listen, you daft bint, your fearless leader an' his tarty li'l sire have Buf…the Slayer an' they're doin' God-knows-what to her.  You want a Slayer death on your conscience?  Tha's the only reason I'm here."  

"Oh, to _save _Buffy?" A snicker.  "Yeah, I'm buying that."

A new voice permeated into the corridor, and the two on the veranda were made complete by the third resident of the hotel.  He knew the man was the last on sensory alone; would have bet his smokes on it.  The newcomer looked tougher than either Cordelia or the British bloke combined.  He glanced down, took in a full glance of the waiting vampire in the doorway, and started with a small laugh.  "No wonder I couldn't concentrate.  We're under attack by Billy Idol." 

Spike rolled his eyes.  "For the last bloody time, that git stole _my _look an' what the hell do you have to be concentratin'…forget it.  Listen, Cordy, I know we've had our differences in the past.  There was that entire 'me trying to kill you' thing, which I take the blame for much as you do.  I've seen the error of my ways an' all that rot. 'F you don' trust me—which honestly, I wouldn't either—phone up Rupert.  'E'll give it you straight."

At that, Cordelia's gaze softened.  

The man next to her tapped the British gent and gestured emphatically into the lobby.  "Who _is _this guy?"

"William the Bloody," the other retorted, surprising him.  "Better known as Spike.  Grandchilde of Angelus, childe of Drusilla."

"You mean there's _more _to this family tree?" The darker man shook his head.  "Man, I was wigged enough as it was."

Spike was impressed.  While he suspected that the Order was being studied, the first man seemed to have his facts down fairly straight.  He jutted his chin at him showily and grinned.  "'Ey mate, you seem familiar."  It was a lie, but a good icebreaker, nonetheless.  "'Ave I threatened you before?"

At that, the man straightened reasonably.  "I am Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," he introduced.  "Former Watcher.  In fact, I was Buffy—"

"Oh right," the vampire interrupted, sparks of recollection flying behind his gaze.  "You're the wanker who turned that other Chosen bint all rogue.  Right.  Buffy's told me 'bout you."  He chuckled and presented him with a thumbs-up.  "Nice goin'."

"Hey, we don't talk about that around here," Cordelia intervened; waving a dismissive hand as though that didn't cut just as deeply.  Spike had to smother a chuckle.  The bird did have stones.  He had always respected that about her.  "Anyway, what was that you were saying about calling Giles?"

"I owe the bloke a call anyway.  Told 'im I'd keep in contact."  He rolled on his heels and started impatiently.  "So are you gonna lemme in or not?  Get somethin' wooden an' pointy 'f it'll make you feel better.  But 'm here to help, okay?  Couldn't _not _help 'cause of the chip anyway."

The woman was considering, gnawing at her lip.  As an afterthought, she turned to Wesley.  "I suppose we could have him sing for the Host."

"Or you could have a vision," the man he hadn't yet been introduced to suggested.  There was a hint of dry subterfuge at the end of his tone, as though he didn't care one way or another.  Spike decided immediately that he liked him as well, that Billy Idol comment notwithstanding.  "Come on.  What do we have to lose?"

"Tha's what I've been sayin' since I got here!"

There was a second's hesitation.  Cordelia evidently reached decision and turned to Wesley, keeping her eyes studiously trained on the doorway as though the barrier was going to magically come down of its own accord.  "Go get the crossbow."

Ten minutes later, he was hovered over the front desk, nodding into the phone as he reassured the anxious Watcher once more of his good intentions.  After teasing the hotels reluctant caretakers for a few endless seconds, he conceded the receiver to Wesley so the man might verify the same.  There was a series of contended 'ohhs' and 'I see's' before he nodded to Cordelia and the other man (who had kept the aforementioned crossbow trained on the vampire throughout the entire introduction process) that Spike's story checked.  He also added, slightly surprised, that the Watcher's Council had arrived in Sunnydale.  The Cockney nodded in confirmation that he had been expecting it, and ended on a note promising to call if they obtained any information.

"Okay," Cordelia said once everything was in the clear.  She was shaking her head as though to wake from an increasingly perplexing dream, and all but groaned when the vampire's image refused to fade from tangibility.  "You've officially snagged my attention.  Why are you here to help?  Last time I saw you, you all but tortured Angel to death and—"

"Yeh, yeh, good times an' all that rot."  Spike was grinning even if he knew it was dangerous.  He was, after all, surrounded by a lot of ponces who were loyal to his wanker of a grandsire, but the memory was a happy one, and he would never deny it.  "An', 'f we wanna be fair, it was more that git Marcus who did the torturin'…an' got the better end of the deal, 'f you don' count bein' a pile of dust at the end of the day.  Let's jus' say I'm a changed man.  Seen the light an' all that."

Wesley cocked his head curiously.  "Because of the chip?  Vampires do not change, Spike.  Without the guidance of—"

"Listen, do you want help or not?"

"I believe what Wes is trying to say is…" Cordelia intervened once more.  "Shouldn't you be crawling over a football field of hot ash to appease your wackaloon of a girlfriend?"

"Dru's already spoken her piece to me, like I said.  I turned her down."  He held up a hand.  "Don' ask me why.  'S nothin' that I can explain.  Believe me, 've tried.  The lot of you are nothin' compared to a bunch of righteous Scoobies.  I'm here for the Slayer, an' only the Slayer.  'F she wants to go after your precious boss after I have her back, fine.  Bloody fun times all around."  The peroxide vampire shrugged and dug his hands into the pockets of his duster.  "I don' rightly care much, either way."

"You're sure going out of your way for some chick you claim to not care too much about," the man he didn't know observed.

"I din't—" Spike began shortly.  "By the way, who are you?"

"Call me Gunn."

"With evidential aspirations of Herman Melville," Wesley added with an amused grin.  His observation merited several blank stares.  "Well, I thought it was funny."

Cordelia shook her head in annoyance, stepping forward as some prime example of belated authority.  "Sorry.  Didn't realize we were keeping you in the dark.  Charles Gunn, this is Spike.  Spike, Charles Gunn.  Spike's the vampire that's tried to kill us more times than we can count."

"In all fairness, luv, I never really had a yen for your head on a stick.  It was jus' the Slayer I wanted to do in."

"And now you're here to rescue her."  The former Watcher was looking at him with the utmost form of fascination coloring his features.  As though the vampire was suddenly glowing with heavenly aura.  "My, my.  How intriguing."  He glanced up.  "I don't suppose this marks as a study that a creature whose prime directive is to be evil can alter his nature once the laws of science intervene and force him to—"

The looks of dueled irritation were virtually identical on either his colleagues faces.  "No," they answered in unison.

Wesley frowned.  "I was merely saying—"

"No."

"Believe me," Spike said, grinning in spite of himself.  "Rupert already tried that road.  'S not worth wastin' a repeat."  He turned as though remembering something, casting an interested eye at the entrance.  "I wasn' welshin' before, I do fancy the new system.  Very handy.  Though for the past century, I've been under the impression that invitation blocks don' work in public places, an' the last time I saw you, you weren't exactly a witch."  A considerate pause.  "Well, in the formal sense of the world."

She delivered a look that could freeze hell, thaw it, and freeze it again.  "We could always disinvite you."

"But I'm cavalry, an' you're the goody-good guys.  You wouldn't leave a poor, defenseless Slayer with only yours truly to come in with the bleedin' brigade."

"You could chop off all Buffy's limbs, and I still don't think you'd be able to call her helpless."  

"Agreed," Wesley stated with a nod.  "Though she would be in the running for the Black Knight."

There was a second's pause before the two British men established eye contact and simultaneously burst into rich chuckles.  The occurrence seemed natural enough until neither exhibited the ability to stop with any sort of immediate control.  Cordelia glanced helplessly to Gunn, who shrugged his indifference.  "Monty Python," he explained.  "It's funny the first time around."

"Oh no, mate," Spike objected, grinning madly.  It felt good to have something to grin at.  Though not much time had passed, two days' worth of worrying had his stomach tied in knots that seemed unworkable.  Humor was undoubtedly the best medicine.  "It's funny every time around.  'S especially funny 'f you mention that part about the rabbit around Anya.  Sends her runnin' in circles."

"Anya?"

"Harris's bird."

"Anya as in the girl he went to prom with?  They're still together?"

Gunn was staring at Cordelia in sheer disbelief.  "You _remember _who went to your prom with who?"

She shrugged.  "I went with Wesley…well, sorta."

He turned to the former Watcher, dumbfound expression intensifying.  "You cradle robbing smoothie.  I never woulda guessed that."

Wesley turned back to Spike; deciding the best way to avoid the conversation was to ignore the two participants.  "The invitation spell was enhanced by an independent contractor," he explained after struggling to remember what was being discussed.  It was an unusual digression, however welcome.  "After Angel went bad, we were called by an…informant at Wolfram and Hart.  He was generous enough to warn us about what had transpired, as well as Angel's plans for us, seeing as we are his link to humanity." 

The peroxide vampire's brows flexed incredulously.  "Oh, 's that right?  Jus' a good friend who 'appens to work for the greatest known evil this side of the Western hemisphere?"

"Someone who's not as evil as he'd like to think he is."  Cordelia smiled unpleasantly.  "But still a continuous pain in the ass.  That sound better…or just really familiar?"

He frowned.  "Oi!  Take that back!"

The image of innocence merely intensified.  "What?"

"'m still bad!"

"Please.  That's so twenty minutes ago."

"You're this close to—"

"Spike, if you were halfway as bad as you'd like to be, I never would've let you in."  She was shaking her head, laughing gently.  "Hello!  We've only been talking for the better part of ten minutes, and I can so tell that you're over the entire evil thing.  The being-here-to-rescue-Buffy ring any bells?"

Gunn chuckled his agreement.  "Gotta say, bro, she's got you there.  Riskin' your hide for the one chick that shouldn't mean shit to you?  Sound _real _bad to me."

"Movie of the week complex," Cordelia offered thoughtfully.

The other man shook his head.  "I was thinkin' a deranged Hallmark card."

"Forget that.  'S my business, innit?"  A pause, and a better moment toward clearer digression.  Spike reckoned that it was time to get back on subject, now that his pride was on the cutting board.  "Wha's to be done about Peaches?"

"I thought you didn't care," the woman replied with an amused smile.

"Bollocks.  I don't care.  But 'f I should run into 'im on the street or what all, it might be good to know how far I can pummel him till it reaches 'Spike-be-staked' territory."

That much made sense.  The group exchanged a series of pointed looks.  

"We don't want Angel dead," Wesley explained after a moment's thought.  "But we understand that getting him back might not be as simple as we'd like.  There are forces out there working against us, and not having a champion…well…that's going to make things all the more difficult."

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes.  _"Champion."_

At that, the young woman's humor abated, and her eyes shone with genuine offense.  "Hey," she snapped.  "I don't care what little issues you have with Angel, but around here, we—"

"Let it go, Cor," Gunn advised.  "You were spokesperson for the 'We think Angel has lost it' party for weeks before he went all evil on us."

"That doesn't mean I have to take it from Captain Peroxide."

"Great.  Seems no matter where I go, I'm surrounded by hypocritical white-hats."

"Hey, watch it buddy.  You came to us.  Remember?"

 A sigh rang through the air, and he wasn't pleasant about it.  There would be plenty of time to sit around and have at it with each other once the more important stakes were met.  Right now, his only concern rested with the Slayer, and he wasn't about to go wasting more time.  There had been enough of that, already.

It was shameful how easy it was to digress, but these were people he felt he could like.  Respect, if only have some shared.  

"Not that this isn't terribly interestin'…well, 's not at that, but I came here for one purpose."

"Yeah, yeah."  Cordelia waved at him dismissively.  "We got it.  The Slayer and all that.  Jeez, Spike.  If you had been this dedicated to getting her killed, she wouldn't be around for you to rescue."

"And I'm sure some part of that made sense," Gunn observed with a frown.

Wesley stepped forward with an astute nod as though to verify his stealing of the platform from his coworker.  It seemed more likely.  For whatever reason, the Watcher had the air of someone who could get things done, and furthermore, manage a business with some reason of effect.  "Our best option right now is Caritas," he suggested.  "The Host can read you…well, all of us, really, and point us in the right direction."

"Cara-what?"

"Caritas.  It's a demon karaoke bar."  Wesley nodded to his colleagues, and instantly, they were gone—hurrying off to complete whatever silent request had been issued.  "The Host there can read you when you sing.  It's most useful, really.  I'm sure he can prove to be of some service."

Spike gave him a hard look.  "I have to sing?"

"If you want to help Buffy, it would be beneficial."

A long pause.

"I have to sing?"

Cordelia reappeared out of thin air, fitting into her jacket after handing the former Watcher his.  The vampire guessed that she had popped into the office; he hadn't been paying attention.  "Angel did."

Another long, incredulous look. 

Then he finally cracked.  A short chuckle at first; before long, he was keeled over, resting his weight on his knees and indulging in his inner tickle demon.  "Oh God," Spike cackled.  "Peaches sang?  An' your ears din't bleed till you died?"

There was an appreciative snigger.  "Nearly."

"'d forgotten how tone deaf the wanker was till three years ago.  I caught 'im on occasion with a song or what all stuck in his head.  Think it 'bout killed all the flowers in his garden."  Spike shook his eyes, eyes twinkling with mirth.  "Lemme guess…Barry Manilow?"

The lot of them were grinning now.  "The one and only," Gunn agreed.  "It was…oh, I don't think there are words."

Cordelia shrugged.  "Awful?  Horrendous?  Kill-me-now?" 

"I stand corrected."

She grinned and turned back to the vampire.  "So, Spikey, you're going to dazzle us with a number.  For the sake of humankind, of course."

"Or in his case, pussy-whipped kind," Gunn corrected.

Spike glared at him.

"Any hints?"

Just as fluently, he turned back to the young woman and flashed an alluring smile.  "Jus' wait, luv," he promised softly.  "All good things."

A wry glance but a smile to match it.  "We'll see."

Spike grinned in turn and pivoted to follow his new associates out the door.  

This was an exceptionally good start.

**To be continued in Chapter Ten: _Absence of Fear_…**


	11. Absence of Fear

**Chapter Ten**

**Absence of Fear**

"Does she always do this?"

Wesley tossed an irked glance over his shoulder as Gunn cradled a thrashing Cordelia to his chest, waiting until the waves subsided and she fell still again, gasping for air.  After the deeper shards of pain melted into nothingness, she turned violently in her seat and thwapped Spike upside the head.  Hard.

"Ow!  What was that for?"

"Some consolation.  'Does she always do this?'  Please!"

"Cordy, a little description of what you saw might be good."

The woman turned around again, absently caressing her temples as the last of her headache waned away to nonexistence.  "Kids.  Two of them.  They're being attacked in the alley behind…oh, it's that place on the east-side."

"Not really helpful," Gunn informed her.  His observation also merited a grunted thwap, though notably not as hard.

"Hey, buddy.  I work for these things.  Not the other way around."

Spike leaned forward expectantly.  "So what 'appens now?"

"Now we go save the kids that Cordelia saw in her vision," Wesley replied.

"…right after you drop me off at this Tarabas or what all?"

"That's Caritas, and no.  We're going now.  We can't afford to stop." 

The vampire sat back with furthered exasperation.  "But you heard Charlie!  The one alley on the east-side?  We could be out 'ere for hours."

"I'm sure the lots of screaming will help point us in the right direction."

A long silence.

"As I was sayin', we could be out 'ere for hours!"

"Serves you right for calling me Charlie," Gunn snapped.  

"The one by Mom's Barb-B-Que House…not that one but the one close to it?  You know?  The one that has bad décor but doesn't make up for it with decent food?"  Cordelia slapped her friend again on the shoulder.  "You go there all the time!"

He shrugged.  "It's cheap."

Spike shook his head.  "An' we're not stoppin' at this karaoke bar firs', why?"

"Because it's not on our way," Wesley retorted.  "And if the Powers seem to think that our attention should be on the kids that Cordelia saw in her vision, then we're going to trust them."

"Bugger the Powers!  I have to—"

"Save the Slayer," Gunn groaned.

"We heard you the first time," the woman agreed.  "You have the broken-record epidemic.  And there will be no premature leaving of the vehicle.  The last time that happened, Angel went the way of the dark side."

The man beside her groaned again.  "I hate Star Wars," he decided.  "All that 'dark side' nonsense.  Of course it's the _dark _side.  What else would it be?  If I ever meet George Lucas—"

"Yes, he did it intentionally to get on your nerves," Wesley agreed wryly.  "It was a part of his evil plan, along with annoying the worldwide African-American population."

"There is no worldwide African-American population," Cordelia argued.  "If they're African-American, they're American.  Hence the—"

"Would the lot of you shut the _bloody hell up?!"  _Spike growled.  "'F we're makin' with the rescue bit, let's go ahead an' get it over with.  Bad enough that I have a reputation for killin' my kind on the Hellmouth.  'S becomin' a sodding conflict of interest."

There was a moment's silence.

"Someone's testy," Cordelia observed.

His eyes narrowed at her.  "Well, yeah!  How the hell do you hope to defeat whatever's eatin' at the youngsters?  Wes'll throw a book at 'em, I s'pose, an' Charlie here'll start talkin' up interracial politics.  Maybe you can spray a li'l perfume in their direction."

"I don't talk about interracial politics all that often," Gunn clarified.  "There are just some things that egg me in the wrong way.  Like being called Charlie.  I'd advise you drop it before it becomes habit and I'm forced to shove something very wooden and pointy through your chest."

"Okay.  Flash 'em some attitude.  That'll work."

The car suddenly jerked and came to a fierce halt beside a curb and Wesley pivoted to shoot him a disapproving glare.  "Spike, if getting to Caritas matters to you at all, you'll firstly shut up, and secondly help us deal with whatever we're about to encounter," he advised, climbing to his feet as the others piled out of the automobile.  "Providing reaching your Slayer—"

Dirty fucking pool.

"Right, right.  You ole git." The vampire jumped to the concrete after them, making no small noise about his discontent at the inconvenience.  "What 'f the runts are bein' attacked by a human?  What then?  I throw pebbles at 'em an' hope it doesn' hurt?"

There was no answer.  Just a collective demand for him to shut up.

Spike grinned.  These people, once you got passed the unfortunate Angel-association, were a bit of all right.  

Then again, he reckoned that working with a vampire—despite soulful disposition—had assisted in lightening their opinion of him.  There was a group dynamic that nearly rivaled the one he had left behind.  A willful need to search out.  To seek.  To investigate.  

"Spike!" Cordelia called seconds after the others had disappeared into the alley.  "You coming?"

To righteously annoy.

"Right, right," he agreed under his nonexistent breath.  "Rely on the vampire to save the day.  You people are depraved."

Of course, in consigning his services in turn for allegiance, not to mention transportation, something occurred that he had not expected.  Something he would never have expected, given his nature.  Given anything he had encountered throughout the long trials of his experience.  The scene upon observation did something.  Inspired something.  A flow of unbridled…he couldn't even label it.

Nothing had ever disturbed him as wholly, and he didn't know what troubled him more.  The notion, or the scene playing out before his eyes.

His eyes that were so used to chaos.

His hands that enjoyed creating it.

Spike feared the latter, and he knew it was true.

The most bothersome aspect was the lack of anything entirely bothersome.  It wasn't as though he hadn't seen the same sight played out before, hadn't caused the picture a thousand times.  Never had he shied from reddening his hands.  And the alley was void of blood.  It was more the prospect of what could have occurred had they not arrived.  

A Kraelek demon—glowing puss and all.  The odious stench that he would know anywhere.  Did that ever take him back?  The creature was approximately a meter in length and deceptively quick, regarding its appearance.  Its reputation centered on a habitual blinding of all victims with the aforementioned puss before draining the insides in a manner that could make the toughest man flinch in retrospect.  

What was most suspicious was its origin.  The Kraelek weren't native to California, or America in that regard.  He had seen them out of context before, of course, but usually on assassination missions.  And it had been nearly thirty years.  In Prague.

That was another thing.  No creature particularly favored the demon.  While its preference resided among the living, it would and had targeted the undead to add to a plethora of victims.  Vampires wouldn't die from such an attack—not at first.  But they couldn't well feed without a stomach and eventually starved to death.  As in all other things, it bowed to the highest bidder; whether said bidder was proposing wealth or power.  He wagered more the second as he couldn't see what use the creature would have for money.  Spike did not favor beasts that could just as easily turn on him, and had thus never before employed such services.  Besides, they weren't exactly easy to come by. 

Nor cheap, in any case of its favored method of payment. 

The Kraelek in question had evidently narrowed its selection to the two suggested in the vision.  Two girls—one no younger than twenty with dirtied blonde hair, who looked anything but helpless despite the odds mounting against her.  The look of fierce determination on her face rivaled any Slayer he had faced, and she had not spared the slightest glance in their direction.  It was in the best regard: the creature hadn't acknowledged them, either.  She was currently warding it off with what appeared to be an elongated stake or something of a similar nature.  Something she had most definitely had ready on her persons when the assault first began.  

Her companion was considerably younger.  A girl of similar blonde hair who had to be her daughter or a relation in that regard.  The child likely around five, but her expression was startlingly matured.  As though she would be fighting as well had her guardian not strategically placed herself between the girl and the monster.

It was odd to see a girl that age look at a demon and not reflect fear. 

"What the…" Gunn said, frowning in disgust.  "Puss?  No one mentioned puss."

"Get over it," Cordelia snapped.  "Someone get the girl.  Wes, Spike, distract the demon.  We have to get its focus—"

The vampire's eyes narrowed at her.  "How do you suggest we distract—"

Wesley had, at some point, brandished a small, handheld crossbow and projected an arrow into the Kraelek's left leg.  The creature howled and turned to them violently, flashing its fangs with intent.

"There," the Watcher supplied.  "That elementary enough for you?"

"Bloody fantastic.  You 'ave anythin' in a larger size?  'Cause that's not gonna do us rot, you egotistical sod."  Spike rolled his eyes and leapt forward before the thought could entirely register, as if to prevent himself from retracting what was notably a fool idea.  His features melted into game face, and he roared ineffectually, keeping his head trained knowingly as far out of spitting range as possible.  

Right.  Might be a good idea if he told the others about that.

"Don' look at it!" he shouted, swinging furiously as the Kraelek attempted to turn back toward its intended.  "'Less you fancy carryin' around a tappin' cane for the rest of your days an' taking orders from a mutt named Sparky!"  

Another flash of incisors.  The vampire dropped to the ground instinctually and rolled over to the blonde woman and her child, fighting to his feet with an unneeded pant.  

"Time for formal introductions'll come later," he said in hurried greeting.  "Run off to the wanker in the glasses."

He received a blank, incredulous stare for his troubles.

"Who _are _you?" the girl demanded.

Her inquiry went indefinitely unanswered; the Kraelek had turned its attention to her once more and smacked her in the proffered direction with a wide and oddly sloppy gesture of its arm.  The girl behind him remained unharmed but exhibit the first sign of childish fear at her caregiver's sudden ailment.  

"Serves her right," Spike muttered, though there was no feeling behind it.  "Told her this wasn' the proper time for bloody introductions."

Cordelia rushed to help the fallen woman; Gunn and Wes were attacking the demon from the back.  They moved with respective synchronicity—obviously well attuned to each other's moves and abilities.  The former Watcher had used up the last of his arrows and was attempting to distract the Kraelek while his colleague collected the weapon that had tumbled from the victim's grasp in loo of her attack.     

"That's right, you bastard," Wesley snapped.  The insult was nearly comical coming from his cultured brogue.  "Pick on someone your own size."  At the prompt, Gunn stepped forward and began releasing what looked to be a year's worth of repressed rage on everything that had ever irked him at the monster.  It was impressive to look at, but not altogether effective.  

Spike chuckled and shook his head, turning to the girl behind him.  "You all right?"

She nodded.

"It'll be over in a minute, pet."

There was doubt behind the child's eyes, but she did not comment.  Again, the vampire found himself taken aback by the layers of unguided maturity.  She looked much too old to be so young.  

"SPIKE!"

The vampire whirled around, bursting back into game face.  His arms outstretched and prone; it took two seconds to divulge the Kraelek's plan.  And then it came—sheer rage.  Rage beyond prompt.  Beyond reason for being.  Rage that a creature, any creature, could think to harm a girl such as this.  Rage at himself for being the culprit more times than he could count.  Rage at the entirety of his kind as well as all others prompted by the demon derivation.  Unprecedented, neatly unprompted.  It gnawed and clawed and ate away at his insides, but for a fraction of a second, he didn't care a bloody damn.  There was no thought beyond darkness—no concept swaying in the communal disorder of his cavity.  

Thus he did what his instincts commanded of him.  What his inner workings told him to do; that if he rejected what he was and what he felt, he would never walk away from that alley with a shred of anything to merit reasonability.  

He sank his fangs into the creature's neck, and tore.  He gnashed.  He dug.  He made it bleed.  A foul, repugnant taste invaded his mouth, and he didn't care.  Didn't care when he felt the skin at his shoulder swipe away at the influence of an angered claw.  Didn't care when his side screamed out in pain, or at the thrashing the monster was making against any patch of flesh it could see.  He growled and bit harder.  Bit until his jaw hurt.  Bit until he felt the vein in his head would burst only for the remembrance that he didn't have a pulse.  Bit until the creature cried out and released him, and he was consigned to the ground, an awed Wesley and Gunn standing at his wake.  The sounds of an injured Kraelek distant now, suddenly, and wailing far into the traffic of the city.

There was nothing for a long, long moment.

"Ummm…" Cordelia offered unwaveringly.  "Ew?"

The former Watcher tilted his head in respectful regard and approached, offering him a hand.  "You all right?"

Spike flinched and nodded, his face distorting into a painful frown as he spat the mouthful of blood that hadn't trickled down his throat back onto the pavement.  "Okay," he said thoughtfully.  "Maybe that wasn't as bright an idea as I thought."

The woman had at some point broken free of Cordelia's grasp and raced back to the girl, who was staring at him with awe-inspired eyes.  In turn, the vampire nodded, his face melting back into human guise.  

"You knew what that thing was?" Gunn asked.

"Kraelek demon," he answered distantly.

Wesley frowned.  "Kraelek?  Are you sure?  They are non-indigenous to these parts…or anywhere in the American continent, for that matter.  They—"

"I know what it was, boy. Don' go lecturin' me.  I've seen 'em before.  Almost lost Dru to one in Prague."  He shook his head.  "That was before the mob, 'course."

A small noise shuffled the group's attention back to the woman that had just been saved, and the child protectively cradled in her arms.  "I…uhhh…" she began awkwardly, all signs of the female warrior they had seen not ten minutes ago flying out the proverbial window.  "I don't…how did…?"

Cordelia smiled warmly.  "It's a long story." 

"Yeah, starting with how she's not a kid."  Gunn pivoted heatedly to his colleague, though any anger was most definitely nonexistent.  "I thought you said she was a kid."

"So I screwed up.  Okay?  At least we found the place.  There was still—"

The protective look was back; the woman rose knowingly to her feet.  "You were sent here?"

"No, no," the Seer amended, stepping forward before realizing that was likely not the smartest move to make.  "I…we're good guys, I promise.  I just…sometimes know random things.  Like when someone's in trouble."

Wesley was frowning.  He had picked up something in her tone that he did not particularly like.  "Are you being followed?" he asked, likewise taking a slightly more precarious step in their direction.

"No," the woman, too rapid for comfort but authoritative enough to verify the line being drawn at the subject's end.  "We're fine.  Thank you for your help…we should be getting back."

"Wait."  The Watcher sighed heavily and cast all cards aside, moving for them in an order that commanded attention.  He reached into his wallet and withdrew something that Spike assumed was a business card.  "If you need anything.  Shelter.  Protection.  Someone to talk to…our number's on the card."

A pause.  The woman studied it for a long minute before offering a snicker.  "What?  Do business with a vampire?" She turned a pointed gaze to the platinum Cockney, who arched his scarred brow in turn.  "Thanks, but I'll pass."

The girl at her side sparkled to life at that, tugging insistently on her garments.  "He saved me, Nikki.  He's not bad."

There was nothing to warrant belief behind her eyes, though the expression notably softened, as though indulging a child's innocence.  "All vamps are bad, hon. You know—"

"Nikki?" Spike offered, moving toward them slowly.  When the woman nodded in address, he smiled slightly and returned the favor.  "Knew a bird named Nikki once.  Tough cookie.  Din't take too kindly to vamps, either."  He smiled candidly before turning his attention to the girl, cocking his head with measured curiosity.  "What's your name, Bit?"

Her guardian stepped forward in protest, but the child spoke before she could be stopped.  "Rosalie."  She paused, then grinned lightly.  The first grin that had known that face since they entered the alley.  "Rosie."

"Rosie, I'm Spike.  You can tell your mum that these blokes 'ere are the do-gooding type, an' for the half of it, 'm not implicated anyway, so no fear from the Big Bad."  His eyes drifted upward once more.  "'S not my business, luv."

"We don't need help," she replied, demeanor softened if not trusting.  It was good enough.

"Right then."  Spike sighed and shook his head, turning back to Wesley with an expression of rekindled boredom.  "Can we be goin', then?  I got me a number to sing."

The four headed back to the car, Wesley with a bit more reluctance but carrying the weight of a man who accepted an eye for those who did not wish to be aided.  

"That was weird," Cordelia ventured to say as they resumed positions.

"Girl alone with a kid like that?  Especially one with those sort've moves?"  Gunn shook his head appreciatively.  "Man, gotta respect that."  He turned in his seat to give Spike an appraising glance.  "You're on the verge of seriously wigging me out.  You sure you're a vampire?"

"I believe we all saw the bumpies," the woman observed.

"But since when—"

"It was the girl," Wesley said softly.  "There's something about her."

"Yeah…" Spike agreed, nearly unaware that he was speaking.  "Somethin' all right."

That was the last anyone would speak of it.  The car pulled back into the stream of traffic and disappeared among the multitude.  All prior actions unmentioned but not forgotten.

There was an objective.  A purpose.  Something he could not push aside for anyone.

There would be no further distractions.  

**To be continued in Chapter Eleven: _To My Someone_…**


	12. To My Someone

**Chapter Eleven**

**To My Someone**

By the time they arrived at Caritas, Spike was more than irritated with himself.

Throughout his period of adaptation into the consistencies of human life based on human mandate, the vampire had maintained a consensus on what was and was not accepted according to the limitations of his preset boundaries.  He would drink bagged blood, but he would not like it.  He would kill other beasties, but not because he wanted to.  He would save the innocent if they gave him a reason.  At no point in the aforementioned ground rules would he ever develop empathy for those he was saving on a begrudging whim.  He would never take pleasure in performing good-doer deeds, and he would certainly never put himself at great personal risk to help another person.

Even if that person was a child.

Tonight, he had broken all those rules.

In all honesty, Spike didn't know what had come over him, or furthermore why it should strike him now as particularly revolutionary.  After all, his very being here had already broken about a thousand vampiric laws.  An admittedly unsouled fiend rushing at beck and call (though Buffy had notably done neither of those) of a Slayer, going against others of his own kind who happened to be similarly of his own Order.  He was far beyond worrying about the unspoken motives of saving a child.

But it bothered him.

It bothered him a lot.

What was it about that girl?  He honestly couldn't put his finger on it.  While it remained true that he hadn't gone out of his way to kill children as an active vampire, he certainly hadn't shied from it.  There were girls all across the globe that enjoyed hiding in proverbial coal bins.  A century's worth of bodies piled at his feet, and he didn't care a piss for any of them.  For the families that mourned, for the tears that were cried, for the damage he had done.  He simply didn't care.

There were other things that he cared about, though.  And it was starting to egg at him in a way that was most unbecoming.  The beginnings of a conscience he had never hoped to have.  

Being around humans was the most sickening punishment anyone could have conjured for him.  Being around them without exacting his only way of dealing with numerous annoying antics.  It had taken him too long to forget the strings of his own humanity.  Even through the early years at Angelus's side, punishing those who mocked him with a swift spike through the head, shagging Drusilla in the snow of St. Petersburg while laughing at the dead that encircled them.  All the while, far out of the reaches of his admittance, there had harbored a voice that demanded if this was what Mother would want.  That demanded what he had become, and if it was too late to make things right.

But he was a demon.  Death was what he was made for.  What he was supposed to do.  And secluding himself from the very eyes of temptation, by trying to be what he was supposed to be, by having a good time and ignoring the conscience that he eventually drowned, he was able to be the vampire.  William the Bloody.  The menace.  The Scourge.

Then his anchor abandoned him and left him for the smut of humanity to dirty as it liked.  To have its glorious retribution.  By then, he had all but forgotten how to be human.  The meaning of guilt had lost its weight.  His nerves were burned at the tips and only time away from the new inducement could heal what was wronged.

Only then, he didn't want to be healed.  He was addicted to what he had become.  The power.  The rush.  Everything that life had denied him, he found in death.  By the time the world was ready to accept him again, he had turned his back on the world.  There was no guilt.  No journeyed path to penance.  No want of anything except the life that he had been robbed of.

Both times, transition had proven the most difficult fray anyone could ever hope to joust.  Guilt, concern, and all of the above were too human for his taste.  He thought he had forgotten how to be human.  All notions of the like shoved back into a recess that did not wish to be addressed.

He found now that the final barriers were being attacked, and he repelled everything he had against such abomination.  It was unheard of.  It was unjust.  It stole the very meaning of his existence from grasp, dangled it tauntingly just inches from view, and stuffed it away where things went that were not meant to be found.  

Being around humans had ruined him.  He was starting to care.  Loving the Slayer was just the first.  He was starting to care about others, as well.  He knew he would kill anyone who dared touch Dawn Summers, and not simply because she was the sister of the object of his affections.  He liked Red and Tara, he adored Joyce, and when the boy wasn't talking, Xander Harris was tolerable as well.  Anya was a bloody hoot and Rupert…well; Rupert…the Slayer wouldn't fancy his disappearance.  All more besides, he needed someone that appreciated British humor, and the old man had good intentions.

That was just it.  Good intentions.   A heart of bloody gold.  Everything he was supposed to hate.

It didn't end there.  Of course not.  He had only been in Los Angeles for a number of hours, and he couldn't complain about the company.  Wesley was an all right bloke, applying for all of the above to concur with the other Watcher.  Gunn seemed like someone he could rightly get along with, as long as nothing pointy was within proximity.  And Cordelia…well…where to begin?

She was almost exactly like Anya, except more…human.  Had the former vengeance demon been born and raised in California, he had no trouble believing they would have been the very best of friends at Sunnydale High.  The same as Harmony and the like.  People that lived formerly money and fame.

And now with this new lot.  Two faces that he would likely never see again.  A _child _and her guardian.  Mother, babysitter, older sister; it didn't matter.  The fact that he had noticed them at all, gone to the lengths he had to keep them safe, risked what he had risked, felt what he felt…it was enough to make him nauseous.  

But the feeling would not go away.

He was beginning to care.  And the prospect terrified him.

If his hosts were at all the humanitarians they claimed to be, they would stake him good and proper based on the display alone.  As it was, they were chatting comfortably, addressing him on occasion and describing his newest task best to ability.  They were an exceptionally strange group.  The valley girl from the Hellmouth, the fired Watcher, and the man he guessed had been raised on the streets.  Spike knew enough to identify them as he saw them.  Gunn had enough ability to skillfully portray what he was without saying anything at all.  A demon hunter.  He had been doing this for a long, long time.

The peroxide vampire wondered with a slight grin if the man had nearly killed Angel upon first encounter.  He hoped so.

Spike's thoughts drifted inevitably to Buffy. Seeing her again seemed so far away that he couldn't reach it within tangibility. One of those things he knew was foreseeable but was blinded to.  It turned his stomach in knots to think of what they were doing to her.  What sort of playthings Angelus might have developed a liking for, what sort of new toys he would try for kicks.  With a prize as robust as the Slayer, he wanted to think that the vampires would keep her around with some measure of reasonability, but he didn't know.  There was no doubt that Angelus and Darla enjoyed a good, long torture session, but that could mean anywhere from hours to days.

There was knowledge there.  Knowledge he had resigned himself to the minute he left.  Despite whatever he told the members of Angel Investigations (they really needed to change the name of their enterprise), and furthermore what he had told himself, he was going to kill everyone who had touched her.  From the lackeys that helped bring her in to the man behind the big desk.  Chip be fucking damned.  

As for Angelus himself…

There was Darla and Drusilla to consider.  Spike didn't want to consider what was to become of the latter, knowing that it would likely result in a dusty ending for one of them.  He similarly wasn't fool enough to believe he could pull all this off by himself, or execute everything to such perfection that he didn't end up badly wounded or extremely dead by the end of it.  

But he had to try.  

If caring didn't destroy him first.

"So, Spike," Cordelia said, twisting again in her seat.  "Any hints on what you're going to sing?"

Oh, yeah.

The vampire grinned.  "Anyone ever tell you that you 'ave an impatient streak?"

"I'm sorry?  What was that?  I couldn't hear you over the pot calling the kettle black."

Wesley sniggered.

"You look like a death metal guy to me," the woman went on.  "Or something equally lame.  Maybe Jimi Hendrix?"

He nodded.  "Bloody genius, that man was."

Wesley looked at her aghast.  "Surely you don't mean to suggest that Jimi Hendrix is…lame?"

"Oh no.  That was me being random."

"Perish the thought," Spike muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Are we discounting Billy Idol?" Gunn asked, casting a copious gaze over his shoulder.  "I mean—come on!  It'd be a hoot!"

"Right.  An' I wouldn't hear the end of it."

"Well, do you _like _Billy Idol?"

"Yeh, actually I do.  The boy's got decent music.  I jus' don't appreciate the 'stealing my look' parts of his gig."  Spike tilted his head speculatively.  "Mmm…dunno.  'F I'm persuaded to do an encore 'cause the crowd loves my stunnin' vocals, I might—emphasis on the _might—_consider it."  A chuckle.  "A demon karaoke bar.  Still can't fancy the scene.  Rupert'd shit himself."

Cordelia frowned.  "Giles?  Why?"

"'Cause he sings."

"He _what?!"_

"Sings.  Gets li'l odd-job gigs around town."  The Cockney sat back comfortably, gazing off in thought and ignoring the dumbfound look of raw astonishment tied in with near reluctant strands of admiration coloring the woman's face.  "Actually, the bloke sounds decent.  Guess every Watcher has to get his kicks off somehow.  Your man kills demons, ours sings.  'Course, he is bloody unemployed right now.  Guess I can't blame 'im.  He was so bored last year 'e even watched _Passions _with me."

Cordelia almost pulled a Regan MacNeil in her seat before remembering that her body was supposed to turn with her.  "You watch _Passions?!"  _she demanded.

Spike flinched, looked at her, then turned his gaze to Wesley, who was preoccupied driving.  "She always this shrill?"

There was a sigh and nothing more.

"I _love _that show!" she continued excitedly.  "Hey, do you really think they're going to go through with the wedding?  Come on!  It's so a not.  And what about Timmy?  He—"

Gunn caught Wesley's eye and they nodded.  "Cordelia!"

"What?  I'm just—"

"Sit down, please.  We're nearly there.  You and Spike can discuss the fundamentals of bad television programming when we are not in a moving vehicle."  The former Watcher grasped her arm with his right hand and jerked her back into her seat.  "On the way back to the Hyperion, one of you is riding in the back, or he can come up here.  I believe we have established that the vampire is not going to attack."

Spike rolled his eyes.  "Y'just now…'ave you all gone very deaf?  I couldn't bite you 'f I wanted to."

"In all fairness," Gunn observed, "you haven't proven that."

"In all fairness," he retorted in the same brogue, "I 'aven't fancied a headache."

"Still, I think a demo is in order."  The man grinned at him unrepentantly.  "Just so we can be sure.  Wouldn't want you to go all bite-happy around a bunch of unsuspecting fleshies."

"No," he agreed dryly.  "We couldn't have that, could we?"  He sank further into his seat and kicked the back of Wesley's on a whim, flinching when the chip activated.  There was a whoop of victory from Gunn and a brief swerve as the Watcher attempted to regain control of the wheel, and a very deliberate notion to ignore all jokes made on his behalf.  "Oi!  Mate!  Any chance I can call shotgun now?"

"It's yours."

It was obviously his on more a note to avoid any other physical harassment than a genuine wanting of his presence in the front seat.

"Hey!" his colleagues protested good-naturedly, but that was the end of that.

"We're here," Wesley announced anticlimactically, parallel parking with enviable ease and killing the ignition.  "It's a few blocks down, and I'm suspecting that this is the best place we're going to find up the strip.  All right everyone.  Spike."  He regarded the vampire with a nod and an air of anticipation.  "I hope you have your number selected.  We're going to be hearing it soon."

Spike flashed a cheeky grin and quickly made to follow.

The bar was everything and nothing he would expect of a demon karaoke establishment.  The gatherings of a thousand species—those that both hated and intermingled with humans.  Some that were dangerous beyond reproach.  Some that were as harmless as kittens.  Very few that he could not identify.  In all his years, he had never seen such a gathering of genus—the same that would be battling on the streets sharing a drink over some really bad vocals.  As though someone had a right mind to redo the scene from the Star Wars Cantina properly.

The bloke at the mic currently seemed to know what he was doing.  Some demon that he couldn't identify upon first glance, belting out the soulful lyrics of Etta James, proclaiming that his love had come along, at last.  It was a tad on the poncy side, but well done.  Marvelously done, if he wanted to be completely honest.

Spike had absolutely nothing against the sentimentalists—he rather enjoyed a good number of them—but it was a bit too _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_ for his taste when a guy tried to sing the part of a bird.

Someone tapped him hurriedly on the shoulder.  "That's him," Cordelia whispered, pointing in the direction of the stage.  "That's the Host."

The green fellow was the one who read when others sang?  The vampire's brows arched dubiously.  "Well, isn't that interestin'?"

"Isn't he good?"

"Bloody fantastic, pet."  His gaze drifted to the mélange species of demon once more, fascinated.  "Does everyone sign a peace treaty or what all before comin' in?  Half these gits are at war all the time.  I know.  I've seen it."

"Caritas is a sanctuary," Wesley explained.  "There can be no violence within its boundaries."

"Oh, so now I can't hurt humans _or _my kind?  Spectacular."

"No one can.  That's the beauty of it."  The Watcher stopped shortly and smiled as the Host finished his number, announced some Gnackner demon was about to take the stage, and immediately set off to see them.  Evidently, their presence had been anticipated or something of the like.  Perhaps this was genuine.

"Evening, kiddos!" the Host proclaimed loudly, sliding an arm around Cordelia and Gunn.  "How goes it?  Aside from the ugly death and the digression that is your boss, of course.  Honestly, I'm surprised you had the stones to show up here in the first place.  Someone like woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-coffin-Angel-cheeks on my tail?  Whew!  I'd be hiding under the bed." 

A rumble of mirth surged through the platinum vampire at that.  _Angel-cheeks._

Cordelia was positively beaming at him.  "Watch that.  I'm going to start believing you're not glad to see us."

"Oh, I'm glad.  Let me count the ways.  Especially to see all of you in three whole-looking pieces."  The Host shuddered lightly and shook his head.  "You haven't had any trouble?"

At that, the young woman seemed to have no answer.  The aforementioned three shared a series of sheepish glances.

"Not so much as trouble as the big bad Angelus standing outside the Hyperion, yelling his ass off at us to invite him in from sunset to sunrise two days straight.  We haven't seen him since, but that's nothing we regret," Gunn replied.  "Your spell worked like a charm, man."

"As spells are supposed to do," the Host agreed.  "Well, the man himself showed up here last night.  Didn't stay long.  Spoke a piece, made some threats, and I think I lost me another bartender, but no harm no foul.  He knew enough not to try anything."  He turned swiftly to Cordelia.  "You never mentioned that the bad Angel is like a PMSing Martha Stewart.  Details are appreciated!"

Spike laughed again, louder this time.  Oh yeah.  Definitely liked this bloke.

"I thought the 'nailing of puppies to walls' sort of covered that territory," she replied with a grin.

The green fellow shuddered again at that.  "Oh thanks, sweetcheeks, for rehashing that image.  I had to have Larry the Hashnog demon forcibly remove it last time around.  Not exactly an experience I'm looking to suffer through again, but sacrifices must be made."  He turned to Spike suddenly, eyes narrowing.  It took only a minute of study to garnish his conclusion.  "You're one of Angel's!"

The vampire frowned in resentment.  "Now wait—"

"No offense, skittles.  I just go with the flow."

"How did—"

"The pout, pumpkin, it's all about the pout.  I'd recognize that glower anywhere."  He turned to Cordelia and leaned over, studying the new arrival diligently.  "You think it runs in the family?"

Okay, whether or not he liked the bloke, no one got away with calling him a sodding Angel-model.  

"Temper, temper," the Host said disarmingly before the vampire could object.  "It won't do you any good in here, anyway."  He extended his hand with a friendly.  "Hello.  I'm Lorne, the owner/operator of this fine establishment."

At the stage, some horrendous beast was vocalizing the theme to _Love Boat._

"Lorne?" Wesley questioned with a frown.

He waved airily.  "Yeah, yeah.  Proper name and all.  What?  You thought mummy dearest took a look at me and decided to call me The Host?  Trust me, where I come from, there is nothing to Host.  Very sad and I'm sure we'll shed a few tears later.  I'm betting you're here so sugarbritches can grace us with a number."

"The name's Spike, mate," the vampire grumbled.  "An' how the bloody hell—"

"Oh, and he has Angel's attitude, too!"  At the offed look Lorne received in turn, he immediately set forward to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder.  "Only you're much livelier, pardon the pun.  And that accent!  To die for.  There were times when I thought Angel might as well be an animated mannequin for all the moving around he did." 

"And you've made several facial expressions tonight," Cordelia observed.  "That's way non-Angelish."

The Host laughed richly.  "And I knew because the team at Angel Investigations isn't daft enough to risk a trip here for the drinks while the boss is on his…how shall we put it…holiday?  Since they brought you along, I'm guessing you need to be read.  Well, step on up!  I love fresh blood around here.  Again, pardon the pun."

"Yo, man," Gunn interceded gruffly.  "We're not gonna cower in some corner just 'cause Angel's out there in the not best sense, all right?  We're demon hunters.  That's what we do.  The Hyperion's just—"

"Yeah, yeah," the Host agreed dismissively.  "Bygones.  Spike, babe, walk with me, talk with me.  We must get you set up for your number.  I'm seeing strobe lights, a disco ball, and stylish choreography."

The vampire stopped in his tracks and stared.

"Kidding," Lorne reassured with a smile.  He was perhaps the first _anyone _that the Cockney had ever met that could continue to look so genuine without his expression going plastic.  That was oddly refreshing.  "But I do love the attitude.  Tell me, sugar, you play any instruments?"

Another hesitant pause.  "Why?"

"Because, as often as possible, I like to get authentic performers on my stage.  Lindsey McDonald—oh, talk about a voice to die for.  Not to mention that boy could play!  Heaven's chorus couldn't compete.  That was, of course, before Angelkins decided he did wonders for the one-handed look."  The Host paused expectantly.  "So, do you play?"

"Uhh…piano.  A bit."  Spike shuffled, more self-conscious than he felt he had a right to be, given the circumstances.  "'S been a while, mate.  An' really, I'd fancy jus' gettin' up there an' gettin' this over with without makin' a big thing outta it.  See, there's this—"

"There's always some 'this', and chances are it's either a drug bust or a girl.  I'm personally leaning more toward the second."  It was positively exhausting watching the man move.  "Piano, you say?  Well, we have keyboards.  Not quite the same, but workable.  You say workable?  I say workable.  It'd be easier to haul those on stage than that honkin' huge piano.  We'll save that for next time."  

"Listen, _mate, _I'd really rather—"

There was a pause at that.  Lorne sighed and draped an arm over his shoulder.  "Spike, babe, you have to do this anyway.  Something's obviously worth the effort.  Right?"

No contesting that, no matter how painful this experience was turning out to be.  "Right."

"And you obviously have trouble associating yourself with big daddy, right?"

He arched a brow.

"Angel."

"I got you. Yeh, the git annoys me.  've never denied it.  An' really, can we _please _get on with it?  I gotta—"

The Host grinned.  "The sanctuary spell's really annoying you, isn't it?  Not used to negotiating with words."

"More used to it than you'd wager."

"Well, petals, I think, other than entertaining, outdoing Angelface here'll be very therapeutic.  I take it you've heard him. A tune can't carry _him, _let alone the other way around. Let us not rehash that night of the singing undead."  Lorne shuddered, and Spike grinned without realizing it.  "You have a helluva voice.  I can tell."

"'S that right?"

"Well, hon, I don't like to toot my own horn, but I _do_ do this for a living."  He shooed him forward.  "Roberto will bring your keyboard up.  We'll talk after you're finished."  

The Host was gone the next instant.  He reappeared within seconds on stage, announcing their next performer—a Chaos demon, of all déjà vu's, to be followed by a British baddie with a Billy Idol complex.

Okay.  That joke was old before Gunn made it, and with constant off again/on again phases the Host was going through; Spike wagered it wasn't the best bet to press his luck.  He might like the git, but didn't mean he wouldn't rip his throat out as soon as they stepped onto unsanctuarized ground.

_Yes it does._

That voice was becoming a real nuisance.  Bloody conscience.   

The Chaos demon performed a breathtaking rendition of _Stand By Your Man _that brought the house down.  He wasn't necessarily good, but the movements he decided to randomly choreograph were so hilarious that a mime would laugh aloud.  Too soon it was over, and it was his turn on stage.

And he hadn't the faintest buggering idea what to play. 

Inspiration had a funny way of striking at last minute.

If there was one thing that Spike abhorred above all others, it was being labeled predictable.  The expanse of his experience had been a continuous effort to outshine the expectations that vampires across the globe had constructed into the accepted norm.  The bloody mainstream tedium.  He was and always would be a rebel at heart.

And it was the rebel's duty to do the unexpected.

Thus when he took his seat at the bench, he flashed a smirk to the crowd, and decided spontaneously to surprise them all.

The first notes were soft—he hadn't played in what seemed like lifetimes, but with him, it had always come naturally.  A talent his mother had encouraged him to master.  The same that was later enforced by Drusilla, who would on occasion demand to be lulled to sleep by musical poetry.  The years had been generous to him in the growth of ability, even if it had been a while since he put the skill to test.  

Then his vocals were tickling the air.

_"La lune trop blême, pose un diadème, sur tes cheveux roux. La lune trop rousse de gloire éclabousse ton jupon plein d'trous."_ He took an unneeded breath, glanced up, and grinned unashamedly at the expression on everyone's face, particularly Cordelia who looked to keel over at any minute.  _"La lune trop pâle caresse l'opale de tes yeux blasés. Princesse de la rue soit la bienvenue, dans mon cœur brisé._

_"The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of a larger world shelter you and I…"_

His fingers paused over the keyboard eloquently.  Really for this number, a piano would have been preferable, but it wasn't as bad as all that.  Another upward glance confirmed the same.  The look on Gunn's face was priceless, and the Host, unsurprisingly, while seemingly impressed was studying him intently, a look of inspired wonder on his face.

That unnerved the vampire slightly.  The prospect of being read like an open book did not rest well with him, even if it was for a cause he believed in.  

_"Ma p'tite mandigote, je sens ta menotte.  Qui cherche ma main, je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine. J'oublie mon chagrin, je sens sur tes lèvres, une odeur de fièvre, de gosse mal nourri. Et sous ta caresse, je sens une ivresse. Qui m'anéantit._

_"The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh. While windmill wings of a larger world shelter you and I. _

_"Et voilà quelle trotte, la lune qui flotte, la princesse aussi. Mes rêves épanouis. Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux, les ailes du moulin protègent les amoureux…"_

As the final notes drifted off into their delineation, the bar erupted with fevered applause.  Spike rose to his feet, gave a small bow, and bounded off stage before anyone could demand him an encore.  There would no further wasted time: it was straight to Lorne, who had abandoned his seat to give him a standing ovation.

"Enough of that," Spike growled roughly, every façade of gentility having abandoned him.  Playtime was effectively over.  "What'd you see?"

"Boy oh _boy, _was I ever right?  That was—"

"Stop with the bloody small talk.  You snooped around my noggin.  I did my bit.  Now _what did you see?!"_

The Host took a prolonged sip of his drink.  "The question, honey, is more that I _didn't _see.  That is one conflicted cranium you're supporting on your small albeit muscular shoulders!  But first you have to answer me an inkling or two.  Why _Complainte de la Butt?_  Always a fave, no doubt, but I don't see you much as a Rufus Wainwright fan."

Spike glanced down self-consciously.  "Wanted to throw everyone off.  Figured they'd be expectin' some…" He caught himself in midst of another digression, paused, clenched his teeth, and shook his head intently.  "Okay, enough.  We'll 'ave plenty of time to chat about this later…not that I will, or anythin'.  Now jus' tell me.  What.  The.  Bloody. Hell.  Did.  You.  See?"

Lorne studied him a beat longer, head cocked curiously.  "You're a strange fella, Spike.  Got yourself all in love with a Slayer—the same Angel was so cockamamie crazy about for years, mind you—and now have crossed proverbial oceans to save her from your own kind.  All without a soul, mind you.  It's fascinating.  Get me a camera crew and a group of talented actors—preferably including Johnny Depp—and I got me an Academy award winning script."  He took another drink, holding up a hand when the vampire looked to interrupt.  Silent indication that a point was being approached.  "You're setting your own path.  That's amazing.  Most vampires are essentially pathless.  At least the ones I get in here. They sing and all I see is whom they had for dinner, or whom they will have for dinner. Except your great-grand pappy—of course—and quite frankly, I'd rather not see what's in his head right now."  There was a theatrical pause as if an invitation to contest the statement.  When none was offered, he shook his head and continued, "It's so rare to meet an evil creature with purpose.  Refreshing, really."

Spike snickered.  "You make it sound like 's been all sunshine an' daffodils."

"Of course not.  Purposes are nasty, grueling things that'll kill you if you let them." A curious smile spread across the Host's lips.  "I know this isn't anything you asked for, pudding.  It's been decaffeinated when you needed your sugar boost and given you one Linda Tripp of a headache instead of energy.  Hey—it happens to the best of us."

A sigh.  "So, 's there anythin' you can tell me, aside describin' me an' my problem?  How's the Slayer?  Did you see her?  Have they—"

"Slow down, Tiger.  The only way I'd have any four/one/one on little Buffalicious is if Angelkins came in here to sing to me about it.  Or the Slayer herself, but no one's holding their superfluous breath for that one.  You sing, I see _your _path, not hers."

At that, the irritation that had been flustering since this insane request was made burst into all out anger.  It was enough.  The line marking his notably overstated patience had been thoroughly crossed, and he was through wasting time.  "So I came here for nothin'?  For Chrissake, 'f you can't—"

"All I can tell you is that you won't be alone.  You can't."  Lorne seized a napkin from the table's dispenser and began jotting something down with a pen that materialized from nowhere.  "You missed it once, sweetie-pie.  Can't afford to make you oh for two."  He slid his scribblings across the table, appraising the vampire with arched brows.  "And for that I really should whack you upside the head, you enormous dolt!"

Spike glared at him, confused but too tired and angry to question him.  He turned his eyes to the proffered napkin and arched a brow.  "Wha's this?"

"The address you need to go to."

"…Why?  The Slayer there?"

"No, hon. That's an alley.  Knowing your hunka antihero sire, Buffy's probably shacked up at good ole Wolfram and Hart.  The alley's your rendezvous point with your guide, so to speak.  You're going to meet someone to help you."

"What about the Angel Investigation squad team of white hats?"

"Oh, they'll help.  But you need to go to the—"  

"Who could I _possibly _find in a bloody—"

"Listen, I wanna help you.  I really do.  And I've done what I can.  You sang, I read, and this is what your path is screaming.  In all languages, brother."  He leaned forward seriously.  "You want to help your girl, right?"

His girl.  Spike softened immediately at the implication. He liked the sound of that.

"More than anythin', mate."             

"All signs point to the alley."  That was it.  The Host backed up in his chair, hands coming up neutrally.  "I've done my part."

Spike watched him leave; watched him disappear into a multitude of creatures.  Watched for long seconds, then turned his attention to the instructions left on the napkin.

An alley.  Help found in an alley?

_Flash.  Little girl staring calmly at the Kraelek demon.  Looking at it as though she had placed it there.  Flash.  Same girl looking at him with no fear.  At his true face.  At the neon that could just as easily take her life as it had god-knows-how-many children before her.  _

An alley.  Well, it couldn't hurt.

Stranger things had happened.

**To be continued in Chapter Twelve: _His Pleasure Is My Pain_…**


	13. His Pleasure Is My Pain

**Chapter Twelve**

****

**His Pleasure Is My Pain**

She was having the strangest dream.

It had been quite a few years since she had the sensation while lost in her subconscious that she could fully identify that her body was elsewhere, snoozing the world away.  So much that she had nearly decided that the concept was something fabricated—not for any purpose, but that she had heard of its occasion at some point in time and marked herself as a potential.  Nothing more, nothing less.  

The world she was in right now was fiction.  It had to be.

"Looky, looky," a childish though hauntingly matured voice cried from the far right.  The preemptive giggle before the tumbling fall.  "The little birdie heard our call, grandmum."

"That was very thoughtful," an opposing voice decided.  Moving.  She couldn't tell where her other captor was.  "After all, we did extend her invitation personally.  It would've been of the most appalling nature not to attend."

"Time for cake and hats."  A pause.  "Shall we call Daddy down?  He will be most disappointed if we begin the party without him."

There seemed to be a minute for consideration.  "No," came the answer.  "I told Angelus that I want some time with our new friend before he broke her in.  I think I deserve it, seeing as she's the one that got me killed."  A step.  Someone had taken a step toward her.  "Isn't that right, Miss Buffy?"

The Slayer felt her insides collapse and hot tears sprang behind her eyes.  

Oh God.

"Hmmm," Darla cooed a second later.  "That's odd.  I could've sword I just asked her a question.  Dru, honey, you don't suppose she's gone deaf, do you?"

There was a thud.  Something heavy had fallen to the ground.  The cackle that rang correspondingly through the air provided swift verification.  The mad vampire was giggling insanely, shaking her head as though refuting a relentless order.  "Shhhhh," she cooed, pressing a finger to her lips.  "Little birdie's playing possum.  Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping the night away.  Can't have fun if the guest wants to nap."

"No, no fun at all."  Darla turned speculatively back to the Slayer, whose head remained drooped and her eyes nearly forcibly closed.  A cry for ignorance—anything to have attention waned in the opposing direction.  "Well, we'll have to wake her up, won't we?  You know how much your Daddy likes to play with his food."

"Oh yeah," Drusilla agreed.  "Make 'em bleed.  Raw.  Tasty."  Her eyes shone like birthstones, and she giggled once more before allowing her body to fall anticlimactically to the floor.  She poked a crooked finger at their captive, ushering her into consciousness by will.  "Wakey, wakey little Buffy.  It's time for the party.  You wouldn't want to be late."

The Slayer squeezed her closed eyes tightly, demanding something to prompt her into unconsciousness.  Crying had been rendered a sign of weakness a long time ago; she hadn't allowed herself to cry for a genuine cause in what felt like forever.  Perhaps when Riley left—even then, it was more for her own inadequacies.  For what her reputably short life was turning out to be.  She had cried when Riley wanted himself dead rather than fix himself.  She had cried for Angel.  She had cried when she killed him and she had cried when he left.  She had cried for her mother—oh, she had cried for her mother.

Buffy honestly couldn't remember when she cried for herself because of overwhelming odds.  Because of where her line had led her.  And here she was, refusing to open her eyes.  Reduced to such a weak bundle with so little at the edge of the blade.  Her arms were chained; it felt like she was hanging from the ceiling.  Her legs, similarly, were shackled, but her feet did not touch the ground.  She was merely hanging—suspended in midair with nothing against her back and nothing beneath her toes.  

More.  Cold air nipped at every newly reopened wound.  She felt dried blood crusted against dirtied skin, and realized that every stitch of clothing had been torn from her body.  

She was completely vulnerable.  And what was worse—she felt it.  Exposure made whole for her acknowledgement.  Buffy had never known that before.  The sensationalism of succumbing to what was in store, and certainly hadn't known it could arrive for anyone so soon.  But she knew where she was.  Who she was with.  The last nail in the coffin.  The Order had robbed her of every comfort, every sanctuary, and they knew it.

What's more, she did, too.

The blonde vampire stood directly in front of the shackled girl, arms crossed and a most unimpressed look coloring her features.  "Come on, Buff," she drawled, bored.  "We know you're awake.  You're just making it worse on yourself.  I know I have a few things I'd like to clarify before we…well, we've already begun, but you were enjoying the not-so-big snooze, and really, it would've been rude to wake you.  Dru and I…we have no tolerance for rudeness.  Do we, Dru?"

A bark from the side.  "She stinks of goodness.  It's all over her.  Inside her."  There was an inquisitive pause.  "Shall we carve it out of her, grandmum?  Make pretty colors and rearrange the patterns?  It would please Ms. Edith."

There was a sound of exasperation.  "I swear, one more word about Ms. Edith, and I'm going to throw that wretched thing into the furnace, you understand?  God, I don't know how Angel does it."  She glanced back to Buffy, arched brows explanatory as though they were carrying on a conversation.  "If it had been my choice, she would've met dust years ago."

"Hush!" the insane vampire pouted.  "Your sour words will spoil the party."

"There won't be a party unless our Slayer decides to wake up."  Darla took a step forward.  "Come on.  I swear, we're going to start again here in a minute, with or without you.  And I'm sure Angelus will wake you up.  His methods might seem a little tiresome, but that's only because he thoroughly enjoys a lively session."  The brazen sound of a delighted cackle rang giddily through the air.  "Oh, God!  You wouldn't believe his bloodlust.  He's gotten so inventive this past century.  Life at his side was always fun, but now it's _so _good it simply _must _be fattening.  I tell you, the way he—"

That did it, for better or worse.  Buffy opened her eyes to her reality.

And immediately wished she hadn't.

"Oh, look!" Darla clasped her hands together joyfully.  "There she is!"

"The guest of honor has arrived," Drusilla informed a line of century-old dolls.  A dozen empty faces staring at her with equally empty eyes.  "It's time to start the party."

"Looking a bit worse for the wearer, if you ask me," the other added as though she was gossiping to a noisy neighbor.  Then her face grew pensive and she stepped forward, studying the abruptly presented eyes with new light, shaking her head when she saw nothing to her liking.  "Not so tough now, is she?  Oh, God!  I think she's crying!  Dru, honey, we made a Slayer cry!  Oh, how precious!"  The blonde vampire's head flew back and she cackled hard in utter delight.  "Could it be that this is the same girl that ruined us?  That this is the very same face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?  Weeping in front of her enemy?  This sniveling…thing?"  Another short laugh; the demon marched forward and slapped her.  Completely unprompted and hard.  "You disgust me."

"Ohhhh!" Drusilla squealed excitedly, rolling onto her stomach.  "Do it again!  Do it again!"

Darla cast her a weary eye, but shrugged.  "Angel always told me it was better to keep her happy.  Do you think we ought to try?"

Another elated shriek was all the evidence required.  

Buffy's cheek burned more with the first blow than the second, but she flinched all the same.  And she hated herself for it.

A tower of fortitude torn down so quickly.  She never would have imagined it so.

"Now then," the blonde vampire continued.  "Where to begin?  There are so many venues to explore…of course, I would not presume to tour them all.  Angelus would never forgive me, and really, it was more than generous of him to allow Dru and I this opportunity to…how do you say…break you in."

It came unbidden; a sudden rush of strength that she depended on with more fecundity than any bode of buoyancy could hope to offer.  "You're better to kill me now," Buffy said, amazed that her voice could produce a whole sentence.  Every movement forced a surge of pain through her aching muscles—pain that was easy to ignore in quick bursts, but not in wave after wave of consistency.  "Whatever it is that you want from me, you won't get it."

Darla looked at her askance.

Then started to laugh.  

"Good God!" she cackled.  "I think I was underestimating the potency of your superiority complex.  Hon, we don't want anything from you."  She leaned forward carefully, the wicked glint in her eye burning with more rage than any one being should hold while maintaining such a calm façade.  When she spoke again, her voice was level and composed.  More unraveling than any sound before its premiere.  "We just want you to scream over, and over, and over again."

"Is it because of Angel?" Buffy closed her eyes as her muscles again threatened to collapse.  Her arms were stretched and aching from where they were held in the manacles, and if she were any less of a person, she would have screamed her entrails out.  She didn't.  Crying had been too much—it had been more.  Crying betrayed more than vocalized pain ever could.  She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a scream as well.  "Because he chose me over you?  Simple vengeance?  Is that what—"

"Please," Darla snapped, rolling her eyes.  "This has nothing to do with your dearest _Angel_.  Tell you the truth, I'm over it.  Been there, done that, had my rebound guy."

"Mmmm…" Drusilla cooed, licking her fingers.  "He was tasty."

"A screamer," the other vampire agreed.  "Then Lindsey came along.  Safe, gullible Lindsey.  Who never says no.  Well…" She grinned.  "Not to me, at least.  Angelus's involvement, while celebrated, is hardly the driving force behind our foundation.  And trust me, dearie, if it weren't for the Senior Partners, chances are I would've gotten bored with you by now.  You see, Angel was the one who celebrated live victims.  I just wanted them to bleed."  

Buffy's eyes narrowed.  "You seem to be going out of your way, though," she observed, flinching inwardly as her muscles strained.  "Playing nice with the Slayer until Angel's ready to take a gander at her."

The vampire shrugged.  "Waste not."  Darla turned away, backing strategically toward the raven-haired loony who remained sprawled on the floor, playing with fine whispered strands of dark follicles.  "There's no point in making trouble at home.  Angelus and I have a lot of rebuilding to do.  Old trust—not that there ever was any.  New hopes—not that we ever focused too much on the future.  No, no.  We had a simple love.  Comfortable.  Casual.  The occasional brutal slaughter at a local convent.  Angel has a thing for convents.  Had he told you?" She paused considerately.  "No.  Of course he hadn't."

Something sharp jabbed her side.  Buffy buckled against nothing and her arms strained at the prompt of furthered excursion.  When she looked, though, there was nothing at all.  An old wound must have acted up.

That hadn't happened in years.

"Double, double, toil and trouble," Drusilla giggled, rolling onto her stomach and propping her weight onto her arms.  "You've been a naughty girl.  It isn't right to take toys that don't belong to you. No.  There should be enough candy for all the girls and boys.         

Buffy stared at her blankly, and it occurred to her that outside a random attempt to use her existence against Spike in an unsuccessful raid of a vampire cult, she hadn't truly been around the insane vampire enough to understand the full extent of her madness.  She had seen her with Angel one night in the park, she had dreamt of her before her lover lost his soul, she had seen her briefly before escaping from the Judge, but all accounts of her insanity were few and far between.  The Slayer had never truly acquainted herself with Drusilla's darker, madder nature.

Watching her now, she suddenly had new respect for Spike's stamina.  The peroxide pest might have been a thorn in her side, but he evidently had aspirations of greater tolerance than she had ever accredited him.  If he could look passed that twisted cranium, there was obviously something more substantial about him.  Something she had never before thought to consider.  

"She doesn't care, grandmum," the raven-haired vampire continued, lolling her head to the side.  "She doesn't care that she's stealing all our toys."

Buffy blinked.  "What?"

"Bad, wicked girl," she hissed.  "Caught with your hand in the cookie jar.  Nowhere to run.  No one to blame it on."

What was theirs.

"I thought you didn't care about Angel."

"I never said that," Darla protested.  "But Dru takes it a bit personally."

"Well," the Slayer retorted, closing her eyes tightly as she attempted to flex again.  "Sounds to me like someone's calling the kettle black."

The blonde vampire shrugged reasonably, though it was too frightening to be casual.  "That might be true," she conceded.  "But she's only made to take the one, hasn't she?  You're already sharpening your corners for a second."

What?

"What?"

There was something so raw, so blunt in her tone that it lent even the darkest of captors pause.  Darla cocked her head curiously, studied her with ominous concentration, then slowly smiled.  "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," she said, shaking her head, broad smile never fading.  "This is just too funny.  You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

She shook her head and turned to Drusilla.  "Honey, it's okay," she said softly.  "Evidently, it was all one big mistake."  The blonde vampire's face was aligned with mirth, and the overall effect was more than thwarting.  "Though I can hardly believe that you remained so blissfully ignorant after he rushed to your beck and call.  You should have seen his face.  It was so…what's the word…priceless."

Buffy blinked.  "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing.  Nothing at all."  Darla shrugged.  "It doesn't matter much, anyway.  She won't listen to me."

As if to verify this, Drusilla emitted a mournful wail and rolled over again, clutching her stomach.  "He calls for her," she announced cryptically.  "Oohhh, grandmum.  He's so deliciously furious.  My dark prince is furious with me.  He burns.  He wears her like a mask.  She is…" The vampire sat up suddenly, dark eyes burning intently at the Slayer, snarling dangerously.  "She's stealing him away from me."

"She's not going to get far," the elder reassured her quietly.  "Oh no.  Our friend here is not going anywhere."

The Slayer was still put off, but enough to ignore a digression.  The pathway was clearer that way.  Less confusing, and all the more welcoming right now.  She couldn't stand to fill her plate up any further than it already was.  

And despite her survival instincts, something told her that she would have plenty of time to consider what that had all been about.

"I have friends who will come for me," Buffy said.  

Darla smiled dryly.  "I don't doubt it.  You humanly types are entirely too predictable."    

"You won't hold me here forever."

"Oh, and I suppose your next line's going to be, 'You won't away with this?'  Please.  This is reality, sweetheart.  Not a reading for a James Bond golden girl."  She shook her head, rattled with amusement.  "You're the Slayer.  You're not supposed to have friends and family.  And yet you do, and by some small twist of fate, you've managed to make your way this far in life.  It won't last.  I knew a Slayer like you once.  Not complete with the staff of support, of course, but just as cocky.  Just as assured of herself.  She broke just as easily as the rest of them.  Her overconfidence was her weakness.  She'd killed many vampires, but none quite like the Master."

Buffy quirked a brow.  "But I killed the Master."

A look of unadulterated fury poured through the blonde vampire's eyes—and the concentrate behind it was purely terrifying.  It didn't last.  In a minute, Darla had collected herself.  Better.  Calm.  "Yes," she agreed.  "You did.  You were a little girl and you got a little lucky.  And nevertheless, we are not the Master.  We're not like the other vampires you've faced.  We are unlike _anything _you've ever encountered.  You met Angel when he was sniveling soulboy.  You saw him as Angelus, and still underestimated the full of his potential.  You saw Dru when she was sickly and didn't know how inventive that twisted little mind can get.  You saw me once—I was killed by the only creature on this planet that even stood a fair chance.  That's over now. And Spike, dear William…I don't even know where to begin."  She shook her head.  "We're the real thing, Buffy.  We're not some nameless bloodsuckers.  We're the vampires that made the world crumble to its knees.  And the sooner you accept that, the better."  A significant pause.  "Your little friends won't find you here.  Even if they did get into Wolfram and Hart, trust me, we'd know.  And we'd take care of it.  For their sake, you better hope they stay far, far away."

The Slayer's glare did not fail her, and for that she was glad.  The remnants of dried tears had crusted around her eyes and her body was cold from the sharp affliction of naked air.  And even that didn't stop her.  Not from looking right back at the face of what could likely be her final undoing.  She met her enemy's stare, match for match, and did not blink.  Did not flinch.  Did not betray the trembles that were seizing her insides, the quivers that were threatening to leak to the surface.

Didn't betray anything.  Couldn't.  Not even the dreariest form of acknowledgment.  There would be nothing. 

"I've had enough," The blonde decided the next minute, jumping to her feet.  "Dru, it's time to let Daddy and the naughty Slayer have some alone time.  All right?"

"Oohhh," the other vampire pouted.  "Things were about to get interesting."

"Don't worry."  Darla stopped shortly and made sure she articulated very clearly.  Staring straight in the face of her embitterment.  The great pinnacle of everything she had grown to hate with such fervor that it made her into more a monster than ever dreamt of before.  "They will."

Buffy reckoned she had drifted.  It seemed years passed between intervals.  Her inner tinglies let up long before they kicked in once more.  It was what awoke her—what stirred her from the edge of proverbial solitude.  When she started again, there was no lapse in remembrance.  Everything rang true.  Sharp and clear.  She was still chained in the middle of an anonymous, windowless gray room.  Her muscles still ached.  Her eyes were still swollen.  And she was still abandoned.

Torture sessions with Angelus were nothing she was familiar with.  Giles had never shared his experience—just that it had occurred and it was awful.  On some days, she noted a limp in his walk that hadn't been there before Acathla's awakening.  She never mentioned it, of course, but it was there all the same.

It made her blood cold to think of what he would do to her.

But she would not scream.  She had already cried; she would not scream.

Not even when the face that had haunted her nightmares for too many years entered her foresight.  Not even when he graced her with a smile that surmounted anything and everything Darla had tried to accomplish with words and fury.  Not even when he neared so close that she could feel him; revulsion crippling her insides.  She would not scream.

Angelus leaned close, fingering a lock of hair between anxious, nimble fingers.  "Hello, lover," he greeted amiably.

She would not scream.

*~*~*

Lindsey McDonald barked an order for the image to freeze-frame, but it was more out of habit, as he was alone.

He didn't know how late it was.  Often times, the staff at Wolfram and Hart worked for days without realizing an hour had passed.  Through lunch and coffee breaks.  Doing everything they could to better themselves.  To please the Senior Partners.  He had been in the dark for a while, he knew, but the approximation on time was lost to him.

He couldn't stop staring at her face.

To her credit, he supposed, the Slayer had pulled through.  When she could have sobbed, she refrained.  When she could have shouted, she remained mute.  When she could have begged, she bit her tongue.

But he hadn't.

A picture was worth a thousand words. 

That was how Lilah found him.  Sitting in the dark, studying a paused monitor, forefinger gently outlining the pain contorted in the Slayer's face.  He was so deep in thought that he didn't even register her presence until she flicked on a light and offered a pointed cough.  

"You know," she began cordially.  "This is becoming a rather bad habit of yours."

"Hello, Lilah," he replied without looking up.

"If one were to make an observation, I'd have to say you're starting to develop the Angel-syndrome. First Darla and now—"

"It's not about her," he said.  And it was the truth.  He didn't know what it was.

Only that it was growing stronger.  Had birthed into full reality the day she had attempted to flee his office.  Had spurned into something greater when he watched them prepare for her wake.  That gnawing feeling that attacked his insides.  The knowledge that someone pure was being tortured by someone he hated.  The acceptance that he had made it all possible.

It was enough to eat him up. 

He hated it.  But that didn't matter a damn.

"They don't know about this, do they?" Lilah asked, gesturing to the security cameras.

"No.  And they won't."

There was a shrug.  He didn't have to be looking at her to see it.  "You're going to destroy yourself," she said, moving to exit.  "Not that it matters to me.  By all means, destroy away."

The light went off again.  She was gone.

Lindsey stared blankly at the face of Buffy Summers contorted in pain.  He had done that.  He had done that without touching her at all.

The twisting inside took a violent turn.

This was no way to live.

With a heated sigh, he rose to his feet and forced himself to snap the tape off and, in the dark, reached for the phone.

It only took a second to get a response.

"Get me Kate Lockley," he said.  

**To be continued in Chapter Thirteen: _Thou Art The Man…_**


	14. Thou Art The Man

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Thou Art The Man**

There was a bloody annoying song stuck in his head, and that was the least of his troubles.  For a man who had traveled the world several times over; he was beginning to have the sinking suspicion that he was lost.   

Los Angeles was not a town he toured by habit.  A trip here or there—usually with several years to supplement the gaps between visits; enough time for the city to grow and develop.  Granted, there hadn't been much to go on since leaving Caritas.  He had stopped once at some second-rate novelty shop where a Mahayle demon—in human guise—firstly proclaimed her astonishment that a man would ask for directions, then helpfully pointed him along his way.

Not that it had done a bloody bit of good.

It was easy to see why Angel had relocated here.  A dark, ambiguous city that positively swarmed with life and lifelike figures that were attempting to make it on their own just as he.  Enough to make any creature of the night feel right at home.  An overly dismal and hopelessly dramatic place that had formed the grueling habit of attracting lost souls.

Everywhere he looked, another pity-case waited to be discovered.

What was worse, the inner poet flourished with anticipation, and Spike's noted marks of discontent were going steadfastly ignored.  The annoying inner muse had been acting with more frequency than the past forever.  Sprouting off new ideas to fill a thousand hapless sonnets after an ageless drought of creative process.  He hated it.  Reduced again to what he had thought he had escaped.  Such distasteful notions of the prolific touch had been growing evermore persistent since the morn of his realization, and the immediate call thereafter to document the Slayer in all her effulgence.

Another mark in the namesake of his growing humanity.

Bugger all.

The vampire banished all away.  He could not consider that now.  The city was left to explore, and he had some tune performed by the last wandering buffoon at Caritas running circles in his head.  There was also the distant acknowledgement that he should contact Giles soon with word of what had transpired since his arrival, even if it didn't produce much in the limelight of understanding.

It would be better to know if the Scoobies intended on staying in Sunnydale or not, pending on what the Council had provided.

Better to now.  With little progress tailing him and the ever-hazy instructions to meet some nameless whoever in an alley behind an equally nameless bar, it was to his benefit to at least make a little progress in maintaining contacts.  Giles could do bugger little to improve their problem right now, but he could prove troublesome if rubbed in the wrong direction.  Spike was already on his list of People Most Likely To Be Staked, and in order to avoid an elevation to the next level, contact was better preserved.  

There was a nagging _now or never _feeling tagged onto that fixation.  Spike wasn't completely daft; he knew how simple it could be to lose oneself in the city, and he was that much more determined to remain focused.  

Focused as in he had been in Los Angeles for almost thirty-six hours and had thus managed to locate Angel Investigations, save some nameless girls from a nasty monster, and partake in a demon karaoke bar.  Giles would be proud.

Spike spied an arbitrary payphone weaned at the corner that separated two virtually identical pubs, and, without realizing it, started digging change out of his pockets.  He wasn't accustomed to carrying money that wasn't weightless and thus nearly pulled out Wesley's business card on habit.  The former Watcher had passed it on to him before leaving Caritas, just in case he decided he needed help and didn't know how to reach them.

_"__Dressed up like a million-dollar trooper,"_ he sang absently under his nonexistent breath, making a distant note to rip the spine out of whatever unholy creature insisted on singing such an overused oldie.  Not that he didn't appreciate the oldies, mind you.  He just didn't fancy them stuck on repeat in his cranium.  _"Tryin' hard to look like Gary Cooper—super-bloody-duper. Come let's mix where Rockefellers walk with sticks or um-ber-ellas in their…_'ello?  Rupert?  Yeah, 's me."

The old man seemed eager to speak with him but equally cynical and condescending.  As though waiting until this particular juncture to phone with real information was very inconvenient.  Spike was nearly tempted to call him on it, but he knew the temperament was more in ode to his delay in calling on the hour as had been wordlessly implicated.  Honestly, though, Giles couldn't expect continuous contact of a similar nature.  Not with the promises of what would have to be done in order to get close to Angelus and Darla at all, not to mention their precious amount of leverage.  

"I don't suppose this is a call confirming that you have Buffy in the safety…well, not safety, but—"

"'m callin' from a dingy alley near midnight in a city where Angelus is king.  Do you really want me to answer?"

"Point taken."   There was a sigh.  The vampire could nearly hear the old man polishing his glasses.  "So, what have you discovered?"

"Right now, a blessed-bloody-little."  It was more than difficult to maintain his bitterness in that regard, though he gave it his best.  Giles was already more than suspicious given Spike's enthusiasm to do something that promised no self-benefit in the least.  Perhaps it would have been better if he had required a cash supplement before he left—though that only occurred to him now that he was miles away from the Hellmouth and not in the place, so to speak, to make monetary demands.

Rather, he could, but he knew innately that money was not what he wanted.

_Bloody wanker._

"Explain 'little,'" the Watcher requested.

"Well, Cordy, Wes, an' Charlie dragged me to some demon bar, an'—"

He nearly dropped the phone with the sudden incursion of Ripper-like rage.

_"You've been wasting time gallivanting at a bar?!"_

Spike swore that the bloke sitting at the stools of the neighborly bar flinched at that.  As it was, his vampiric hearing was likely shot to hell, as his ears refused to stop ringing for longer than was customary.  That wasn't the end of it, of course.  By the time the initial shock had worn off, Giles was in mid-tangent about how he had foolishly assumed that a vampire could take any project with a regard for seriousness, even if said vampire offered himself for the position.  It took several seconds to cut through the embittered ramblings, but finally he had a grasp on the old man's attention.

And after that first grasp, a blessed hook.

"…a karaoke pub?"

"Right.  You sing, this green wanker tells you your fortune or what all, an' I guess in my case, 'e sends blokes down random alleys to find their guides."  Spike paused and shook his head.  "This 's beginnin' to sound like a very bad Japanese film."

He had to credit the old man; it didn't take much to change his tune.  From infuriated to intrigued in two seconds flat. "A demon that can patch into one's providence.  How fascinating.  I've never—"

"Yeh, yeh, yeh.  I'm sure you an' the faithful Scooby patrol will have oodles of fun researchin' that after we're through with talkies.  The Council still there?"

At that, Giles's voice grew softer.  As though he had forgotten about the presence of twenty tweed-donned people surrounding him for the moment.  "Quite.  And none too happy with the absence of the Slayer."

"She's on bloody sabbatical."

"If only."  There was a sigh, and without any prompt, the peroxide Cockney knew a very personal, very difficult question was bordering on the horizon.  He felt in stirring in his gut.  The same that the lot of them had been dancing around since his revelation that Darla and Drusilla were in town and had their marks set on one Buffy Summers.  And yet, it needed to be asked.  For both their sakes.

They had to make it real.

"Spike," Giles began softly.  "What…you would know better than anyone.  What do you think our chances are…of seeing her again?"

The notion that anything else was remotely possible made him want to smash the phone against the nearest wall, but reality was needed in such tidings.  He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, teeth clenching.  "I wish I could say somethin' to reassure you, mate," he replied after a long bode of silence, surprising himself with the truth behind his own words.  The inner voice that warned him of all impending wankerish characteristics had been booted for the time being, and he intended to use that to his benefit.  "But I really don' know.  As you know, Peaches is one to fuck his food…but I don' think I've ever seen 'im do it into overkill, 'f you catch my drift.  He likes 'em fresh.  Bloody enough to—"

"That's enough."

He was glad the old man had stopped him.  The thought alone had his insides raging.

There was a quiet, reflective pause.

"I'll do my best by her, Rupert."

Another respective silence.  Shorter this time, but no less significant.

"I…" Giles began, fumbling slightly.  "I know.  Don't ask me to explain how or why, but I know.  It's the strangest thing."

_You're tellin' me, mate._

"Yeh, well, we can talk over the particulars later.  I don' know 'f whatever I'm meetin' or findin' in the alley's on some sorta schedule."  Spike sighed into the phone.  "'ll give you a call come mornin'."

"I don't trust you."

That statement was so abrupt it made him grin.  As though to compensate for the odd exchange of human candor.  An ode to the bevy of unspoken reassurances that in all other aspects, the vampire was not to be treated like an equal.  Not until he produced an honorable result.  "I know," he replied with a short chuckle.  Then he hung up.

It was time to get this over with.  With as much as he might have liked the Host, the idea of finding what he needed in some abandoned alley seemed a little on the side of crazy.  Regardless of how many little girls with captivating eyes might decide to brave the uglies that lurked in the shadows.  

He hated it that his thoughts kept going back to her.

Especially when he was being sent on a very ambiguous task of locating an unnamed target that was supposed to help him in an equally ambiguous manner.  

There wasn't much to go on.  While notably reeking of the same filth commonly buried in human waste—both the literal and the metaphorical sense—it was nothing that one would not expect from such an ill-reputed part of town.  There was nothing particularly remarkable.  No scents that struck him as something to purposefully seek out as though it meant something significant in the larger scheme of things.  

Though it wasn't difficult to gauge that he was not alone.

The revelation was hardly groundbreaking, and would have struck him as otherwise extraneous were it not for the immediate acknowledgement that whoever it was did not want to be seen.  Even his vampiric eyesight failed to provide additional leeway.  Oh no.  The alley was inhabited.

Quite.

There was no fear in the air.  Another oddity.  Spike might have been out of practice, but he knew enough to identify when humanly types were unsettled.  His correspondent was not.  The prospect brought a smile to his face—stirring feelings birthed on nostalgia that were otherwise irrelevant.  He was tempted to allow his bumpies to emerge and see if that prompted a response, but something told him that his presence was no more unapproachable, regardless of what face he wore.

On any other day, Spike would have played this out.  Engage in a game of hide-and-go-seek, as it were.  But his will forbade it, tugging back irrefutably to the face of a girl that was depending on him whether she knew it or not.  Thus as he stepped forward, it was not with an eye for what he had given up craving long ago out of acceptance.  It was a man on a mission.  A man whose mission ranked higher importance than any endeavor he could dream to embark.

"Right," he said, surveying the unchanging scene once more.  "Give it up.  Who's there?"

A few beats of silence.  Nothing.

"Notice how I said, 'who's there', indicatin' that I know I'm not addressin' the friendly neighborhood dumpster."  The bleached vampire stalked forward slowly, gesturing to the large navy tin out of instinct rather than a need for specification.  On the prowl, regardless of esteem.  He could not ignore innate disposition.  "No point in hidin', mate."

The anonymous presence was not hiding, and he knew it.  That didn't make it any less fun to speculate.

"Come on.  'm gettin' bloody bored talkin' to myself."

There was a rustling then, and Spike whirled just in time for his eyes to become level with the wrong end of a crossbow.

Then an answering call.

"I find that rather doubtful."

The arrow dispatched and met its target, soaring with a victorious snare into the vampire's left shoulder.  Spike roared and dropped to his knees, bursting into game face before he could help himself.  Pain tingled up and down his back, but not enough to wane away the unburdened rage that flustered within meaningless seconds.  It took no time at all to regroup. 

"Oi, mate!" he snarled, grasping the end of the projectile.  "Tha s'posed to be funny?"

"No."  More shuffling and the crossbow lowered, revealing a pair of very stern chestnut eyes, molded into a face that demanded no sudden movements without having to say a word.  "That was your warning shot.  You have ten seconds before I fire again.  And trust me, the word _miss _is not in my vocabulary."

Spike rolled his eyes and clamored to his feet, grip on the arrow tightening before he yanked it free.  The scent of dead blood hit the air and prompted an untimely growl from his stomach—he hadn't eaten since leaving Sunnydale.

"'F this," he said shortly to no one in particular, "is that green maggot's idea of a joke, I'm gonna rip his innards out."

"And yet you're still standing here.  I think the count's down to three."

The vampire's gaze darkened.  "Right.  Real intimidatin'.  You know who I am, boy?"

There was a corresponding tightening of the other's jaw at the degrading and—frankly—arrogant slander of his station, but he did not offer any further reaction.  "Well, the face suggests vampire," came the retort.  "Everything else screams William the Bloody.  And I'm willing to bet that even if I am wrong, there isn't a single person who would care for such a presumptuous mistake."  The man raised his crossbow again, cocking his head to the side.  "Okay, time's up."

Another arrow flashed in his direction.  Spike was prepared.  His hands clasped the small projectile before it could penetrate its target, and he consigned it with a distasteful grimace to the pavement.

"Love the attitude," he snapped.  "I take it we've met?  Lemme guess…Once upon a time, I killed your sister.  Or your uncle.  Or your missus.  Or—"

"Shut up!"

The platinum Cockney arched a brow.  Oh.  Perhaps he had.

This was not good.

He was _really _going to kill Lorne.

"Listen, mate," he said, hands coming up before realizing that leaving himself entirely vulnerable was likely not in his best interest.  "Whatever I did, whoever I killed…well, 's not like killin' me's gonna bring 'em back.  An' frankly, I have better things to do than rassle this out.  So—"

"Lovely to know that a vampire wouldn't think to forget a face," the man replied cynically.  "As it is, you're not the one I'm looking for."

Spike arched a brow and looked pointedly to the crossbow.

"That doesn't mean," he continued, "that I'm not going to kill you anyway.  Your existence is enough of a crime as far as I'm concerned."

"An' yet," the Cockney retorted.  "I'm willin' to bet that I was here first.  Look, I got no quarrel with you, so 'f you'll jus'—"

There was an incredulous snicker.  "You're actually trying to barter your way out?"

"What?  This not a time for diplomacy?"

"A diplomatic vampire.  I thought I'd never see it."  The crossbow lifted a bit, but it was more in gesture than to suggest threat.  "You're not living up to your reputation, William."

The platinum blonde was impressed.  Whoever it was had obviously done his homework.  Enough to know demons by appearance, or perhaps it was a part of his trade.  The Order, as it was.  With as little as the Host had told him, he figured anything was fair game.  "The name's Spike.  An' for someone who seems to know so much 'bout me, you might look into your more recent chapters."  He steepled two fingers against his head, arching his brows tellingly.  "Can't fight, 'ave to be tactful.  Got me a handicap."

"Is that a fact?"  The man shrugged as if it were of no consequence.  "Well, I usually try to refrain from killing a man with glasses.  Unfortunately, your vision's fine and you're not a man.  So, without—"

If killing him was the hunter's intention, Spike was struck with the radical realization that he could.  The bloke was human and had a weapon he had proven more than efficient with at his disposal.  And as quick as the vampire might be, he wasn't quick enough to effectively dodge all further aims at his heart with a hope of synchronicity.

And if he died, Buffy died.

It was better to keep him talking.  To try to keep him talking, if anything else.

"Who was it?"

"What?"

"Who was it?  You're sproutin' off way too much fact an' not enough fiction, not to mention a li'l testy 'bout the relatives. You know about the Order of Aurelius, an' I'm guessin' have a few clues as to its key members."  There was a slow, reluctant nod in turn.  "So, who was it?  One of mine?  Grand-pappy Angelus?"

"That what?"

"That hurt you."

A pause.  "Why do you care?"

Spike looked pointedly to the crossbow.  "Do I really need to clarify?"

The man snickered.  "Of course.  Self-serving.  I forget how petty you creatures can be.  You think you have a chance of talking me out of this?"

"Now, there's a thought."

"You don't.  Give it up, blondie." 

"Oh, name-callin', are we?"  Spike's gaze traveled briefly to the hunter's strands.  He had a head of chestnut hair to match his eyes, but even the darkness of the alley could not blind his vampiric eyesight to the bleached tips that starked nicely at the very ends.  So, this bloke enjoyed hair-coloring from the bottle, too.  That was interesting; it even looked to resemble his own preference.  "Doesn' seem like you have much room to talk."

"Gave it up.  It was a bit too high school for my taste."

"Look, I don' wanna—"

"—what, hurt me?  First of all, you couldn't.  Second of all, bullshit."

That was it.  Spike grabbed whatever eyeful of bait he had been allowed and pounced, forcing the crossbow's aim to the ground with one hand and socking its holder as hard as he could with the other.  The chip fired before the hit even had chance to connect, but that didn't stop him from knocking the man off his feet and into the corresponding wall.  

"Bloody hell!" he shouted, hand going instinctively to his cranium, even if an external massage did little to alleviate the pain.  "See?  This is what 'm sayin'.  Jump to conclusions, an' people get hurt."

"You're not people," the man snarled.  

And then lunged.

Where the crossbow had gotten off to, Spike hadn't the faintest, and he wasn't exactly sure which he would have preferred.  An all-out fists and fangs brawl that he couldn't participate in; rather hope to dodge without receiving a massive shock to his neurological bug-zapper, or a date with a dusty ending.

For the millionth time, he arrived at the conclusion that the chip had to go.

The face-off quickly became a game of dodge.  Spike located the discarded crossbow and quickly consigned it to the dumpster he had seen earlier.  He didn't bother to see if his aim had been satisfactory; but by the absence of a loud clamoring at the ground, he knew it was out of the picture.  

Before he could turn around, however, two very masculine hands grasped by the shoulders and he was on the ground the next instant.  "Come on, you bastard," the man snapped.  "Drop it."

"Me?" Spike repeated incredulously.  "You're the one with a sodding attitude problem."

"I wasn't aware that there was a Vampire Awareness week.  See, by my book, you can't dust too many."

That was it.  He was tired of playing nice—especially when this was evidently the bloke he had been sent to find.  What good was he going to do anyone if he was dead?  "All right.  That does it.  Who the hell are you?  Some kinda Slayer wannabe?"  The peroxide Cockney rolled to his feet.  "Brassed 'cause have a pair too much to qualifyin' for the job?  You're in over your head."

The hunter paused at that, gracing him with a perplexed glance.  "What the fuck is a Slayer?"

Oh. Sod. All.

With a huff of frustration, Spike pivoted sharply on his feet, arms outstretched as he raised his voice to no one in particular.  Then he was screaming, venting everything he couldn't through his hands by means of his voice.  "What the bloody FUCK am I doin' out here?!" he shouted.  He turned his eyes to the sky—addressing God or the Powers That Be or whatever it was that decided that seeing him chase after an allusion was so amusing.  Rage in its purest concentrate coursed through his veins.  In all his years, he couldn't remember being so angry, and there were a lot of spots in the running.  "I don't have time for you to fuck with me!  I don't have time to be pointed in a bunch of novelty directions while you sit on your less-than-holy arses an' have a bloody good laugh.  She's gonna _die _if you—"

"Who the _hell _are you talking to?"

"The filth.  The smog.  The roaches.  Take your bloody pick."  

There was a beat of hesitance.  "You're just trying to distract me.  It won't work."

Spike rolled his eyes and turned back to his adversary.  "'m not tryin' anythin', mate.  But it looks as though you're already distracted.  'F you weren't, you wouldn't've taken the time to explain how it wouldn't work."

The next thing he knew, he had been forced to the ground once more.  A field of blue crashed with a wave of brown, understanding layered behind depths of prejudice.  Something that another of his kind—perhaps his own Order—had placed there at some point.  But that only held the vampire's attention for a second.  

There was a stake in his hand.  

Spike's eyes went wide.

It was time for one of the aforementioned distractions.  A purposeful one.  A good one.  He knew a thing or two about those.  Something completely random, wholly unexpected, and the last thing anyone would think to hear from a vampire.  His mind raced to an image of Xander playing some insidious James Bond videogame in the days where they had been roommates, and his eyes sparkled with inspiration.  Without allotting time to reconsider, he held out a hand and cried: "Stop in the name of the British government!"

Blink.

That had to be the dumbest thing that had ever crossed his lips.

It worked.

The man's arm faltered and his face fell, utter bewilderment soaring behind his eyes.  There was no stopping the same from reaching his voice.  "…What?!"__

Spike flashed a grin and rolled to his feet.  In an instant, he had the hunter stranded without a weapon and was effectively putting his technique of 'hitting without the intention of hitting' front to good use.  The same he had pulled on the Slayer several weeks ago.  A night in the alley outside the Bronze.  The technique worked until he mimicked the act that had rendered him on the pavement a minute before—tossing the man to the ground with such unleveled hostility that a sharp shimmer of pain attacked with all the expectancy in the world.

And just like that, it was over.  While the vampire recovered from the chip's activation, the hunter's attention had momentarily shifted to something that had fallen from his adversary's pocket in the midst of the scuffle.

A business card.  

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," came the soft murmur.  

Spike was staring at the man, wide-eyed.  "You can read that?" he demanded, gesturing to the darkness that surrounded them. "Bloody hell, I never thought I'd find a human with eyesight better than mine."

"Years of practice.  How do you know Wes?"

"Jus' an acquaintance, really." The vampire found he was panting needlessly, as though he had just given his all at a track meet.  It had been more than a long time since he had a good brawl with anything. He missed it with such fervor that it nearly broke him on bad days, and had the circumstances been different, he might have taken the time to realize that despite all, this encounter was just what he needed.

For now, it was occurring to him that perhaps Lorne might not have been playing him a fool.  He studied the man intently before moving forward.  Not close enough to open himself up to an encore, but to gauge his position.  An unshaven chin, dark used-to-be-bleached hair, a set jaw, and he knew the eyes.  Spike verified silently that his initial estimation had been right.  This was someone set into the game as an act of vengeance.  Someone that had been wronged in the past.  Someone that had a vendetta against vampires—particularly those of his Order—for a good reason.

A reason he was determined to discover.

"Wes would…" the man continued, shaken.  "Associate with vampires?"

"Depends on the vamp.  'E was one of Angel's for a while."  The look he received was clearly stunned.  "Before the wanker went out an' lost his soul again.  The old git might be a ponce, but 'e doesn' fancy sidin' with demons that're out…well…demonizin' every night."

"So he's one of yours now?"

"No.  'E's jus' helpin' me."  Spike hazarded another step closer.  "Listen, mate.  I don' know who the hell you are or why you wager my head would look better on a stick, other than the obvious.  But I'm guessin' that means bugger all. You know who I am."

"Yes.  I've done my research."

"You a Watcher, then?"

Well, that hardly followed.  The peroxide vampire flinched inwardly at the hint of redundancy.  If he was a Watcher, he would sure as hell know what a Slayer was.  One would think.

And yet, the answer he received surprised him.  A telling snicker—one that knew its confines.  Nearly conversational.  "Hardly."  

Spike arched a brow.  "But you know what one is?"  

A shrug at that. "Wes was one.  That's all I know." The man paused a minute and glanced up. "I'm a demon hunter.  Well, vampire hunter, but demon hunter's general.  Gives me some leverage."

"I see.  Any particular reason?"

He quieted.  

"Okay.  We'll work up to the personals, then."  Spike decided to go for broke.  The stake was immaterial at the moment, and there wasn't much that his opponent could do to harm him without a weapon at the ready.  Anything that he might have on his persons was safely stored in some compartment or hidden pocket, and he would have more than enough time to leap out of the way if it came to that.  He crouched on his knees beside him.  "You have it in for vampires?"

An arched brow.  Well, that had been a rather stupid question.  "Gee, you think so?"

"The Order's bein' reassembled.  My own sodding family tree.  Angelus, Darla, Dru—the whole bloody works.  I take it you're familiar with them, too."  He didn't need a reply to confirm that theory.  "An' they happen to—"

"You're William the Bloody."

"Well, yeh.  As we've established."

"Why aren't you with them?"

That question had effectively reached its limit.  He was tired of people—especially people who didn't know him particularly well—demanding the status of his nature.  "'S complicated, mate," he replied gruffly.  "Let's jus' say, there's this girl."

"Ah.  Always about a girl."

"Not jus' any girl.  Chosen bird.  Slayer.  Killer of evil things."

"And we're progressing into the 'sounding like a really bad episode of _Passions._'"  The man had looked away before Spike's eyes could brighten in turn.  "Let me guess.  Classic 'beauty and the beast' syndrome.  The big bad monster tripping over himself for a chance at the one girl he's never supposed to have."

Spike shuffled uncomfortably.  "Somethin' like that."

An incredulous snort.  "And you want me to help you?"

"No.  I want you to help her."  He sighed.  "This particular Slayer has a bit of bad history with vamps belongin' to the Aurelius clan.  An' now they 'ave her.  Don' particularly wanna picture what they're doin' to her.  What they're—"

The man held up a hand in ode for a pause.  "Wait, wait, wait.  Please speak into my good ear.  Are you saying you're in against this?  You're willing to go against your…" He trailed off; evidently finding whatever it was he needed ready in the vampire's eyes.  "Wow.  Now _there's _something I'd never expected to find in a vampire, even for a girl.  She must be a hottie."        

Spike smiled.  There was simply nothing to say to that.

"And you want me to help you?"  It didn't sound nearly as incriminating this time.  Cautious, yes, and still a bit on the skeptical side, but leaning more toward something that resembled conviction.  

The Cockney's jaw tightened and his eyes stormed over, thoughts wandering when they shouldn't.   "I want her back, mate.  Safe an' sound.  Whatever it takes."  

"Whatever it takes?"  The hunter paused considerately.   "You understand this sounds completely and utterly ridiculous.  I know vamps.  Vamps aren't typically the type to pull all this righteous bullshit.  I—"

"Well, I'm not one to follow the rules.  'F you know me so well, you'd've quoted that back to me by now."  Spike slowly rose to his feet, steps heavy with finale.  "You can keep that card.  Look up the white hats 'f you get around to feelin' particularly heroic. In the meantime, dreadfully sorry, but I gotta be off.  Needin' to see about a girl."

It wouldn't take a phone call.  They both knew it before another beat could pass.

The vampire had only taken five steps when he was stopped.  The man bid him halt, fished out his crossbow from the dumpster and recollected his stake, mounting all into their security packets and nooks before moving to join him.  His steps were slow but deliberate; marking everything that he was.  A reluctant accompaniment to something he wasn't sure he believed in.

"You understand that if I discover this is anything—"

"You'll stake me good an' proper."  He rolled his eyes with a treacherous grin.  "Somethin' tells me you're gonna fit right in."  They walked in silence for a few minutes before it threatened to consume them.  Spike was not an advocator of silence; especially when there was an alternative at the ready.  "You got a name?"

There was a beat of hesitation, but he complied nonetheless.  "Zachary Wright," he said softly.  "…Zack.  Just Zack."

The vampire grinned and decided to proceed for the hell of it.  Might as well make something out of an otherwise completely random encounter, even if he hadn't the faintest idea where it was supposed to lead him. "Zachary Wright, demon hunter extraordinaire, I'm William the Bloody.  Or Spike.  Jus' Spike, preferably.  Begrudgingly reluctant to make your acquaintance."

Wright smirked a bit at that, and soon they were chuckling together.  The sort of laugh that was disguised as much as possible.  Like two children caught giggling in church.  

If anything else, it was a start.

To be continued in Chapter Fourteen: _Let It Rain_… 


	15. Let It Rain

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Let It Rain**

An unfamiliar face crowded the entryway to Angel Investigations, but Spike did not let that slow him down.  

The hotel had come to life at some point between his arrival and the evening's deepened end.  Amazing that a building that had looked to be abandoned could activate with all the general expectancy that coincided with the detective agency motif.  It was broadened and had an effect that almost soothed.  As though the string of normality so craved, despite the concurrence of recent events, was not far out of reach.

The only unusual aspect was the icy blonde woman lurking beside the entry.  She was looking at them expectantly; gaze convicting them of a crime they hadn't heard the charges to.  He granted her a half-interested nod before turning his attention to the expectant eyes that immediately demanded for attention without saying a word.  

"Evenin', all."

"Don't 'evening all' us!" Cordelia snapped, though he could tell she wasn't genuinely upset.  "You have some explaining to do, mister!"

He arched a brow.  "'S it about the pig's blood?  Well, luv, hate to break it to you, but a vamp's gotta eat."

Gunn was reclined comfortably against the front desk, his arms folded crossly athwart his chest.  A snicker rumbled through lips, and he earned an inquisitive look in turn.  "If only," he said, chuckling in spite of himself.  "Man oh man, are you ever in for it."

"Why didn't you tell me you could sing like that?!" The irate brunette had graced his arm with several meaningful swats, and it didn't look like she was calming down any time soon.  "I used to have connections!  You could've made it big!"

"Like that vampire from what's-her-face's novel," Gunn added.

Spike rolled his eyes.  "Sodding no.  I din't tell you 'cause I don' sing…often.  Or voluntarily, less 's for somethin' special."  Without prompt, he turned on his heels to usher in the guest, who passed the anonymous woman with a polite, if not uncomfortable smile.  It was more than obvious that despite surroundings, he wasn't entirely at ease with the set up.  And that was reasonable.  The walk back had been tedious and silent.  There was some reluctant camaraderie; they were not going to go out of their way to be friends.

Reluctant associations.  Spike was a tool for vengeance; Zack was a tool for leverage.  And that was the way it was.

"Anyway, let's make around the room with the introductions," the vampire said, gesturing his companion forward.  "Cordy…" He turned to the woman standing at the door and appraised her with another nod, "bint I don' know, an' Charlie—" Gunn offered a throaty cough at that, but he earned little more than a cocky smile in turn.  "—meet Zack Wright.  Bloke who wants me an' all of my kind dead."  He nodded to Wesley, who was staring slightly agape.  Wide-eyed and dumbfound.  "Wager you two need no introduction."

The former Watcher finally snapped back to himself and moved forward, steps colored with astonishment.  "Well, I'll be damned.  Zachary!  How are you?"

At that, the stern façade that had guarded the hunter's exterior seemingly faded, and he offered a kind smile.  "Wes.  Good to see you."  

"What on earth brings you all the way to Los Angeles?" 

A sigh rumbled through Zack's throat and he fidgeted slightly.  The sort of conduct that screamed an uncomfortable disposition. "I was dropped a lead a few weeks ago, about Darla." He wisely ignored the telling and rather triumphant sparkle that overwhelmed the vampire at that.  An answer without the obligatory pestering. "I had to come."  He stepped forward at that, eyes narrowing.  "The last I heard, she was eating dust."

"Yes, well…" Wesley glanced down self-consciously.  "Wolfram and Hart have powerful means of getting what they want.  Evidently, she managed to wheedle her way to the top of their list."  He nodded at Spike.  "He's all right.  We have an…associate that has a way of seeing into the intentions of others."

Spike arched a brow.  "You chatted up Lorne 'bout me?"

"Of course," he replied.  "We had to be sure.  After all, we were taking a lot on faith."

"An' here I could've sworn that was your sodding motto.  You _are _the goody good guys, right?"

"Ahem?" Cordelia said from her corner, waving a little.  "Hello?  You guys mind filling us in, because I really think we missed something."  She pointed to the hunter skeptically.  "Who's this and how do you know him?"

"I jus' gave the introduction," Spike grumbled.  "Doesn' anyone around here pay attention?"

"Zack Wright," Wesley retorted, ignoring the undead houseguest.  "A vampire hunter I met in San Antonio.  This is the man who inspired me to engage in the practice of rogue demon hunting before I joined the Angel Investigations team last year."

Gunn chortled.  "That must've been a picture."

"I'm afraid your arrival couldn't have come at a better time," the former Watcher continued.  "We have a situation on our hands that—"

"Yeah, Spike told me." Zack nodded professionally, dislodging his crossbow and bag to the floor.  "The Order of Aurelius.  And something about a…Slayer?"

"Oh, they're kinda like you," Cordelia offered, moving forward intently, "only female and Chosen…and they have this super-strength thing going for them.  And it's a part of this larger thing… Anyway, Wes used to be in the mix, so he can fill in the blanks."  

The air filled with the crisp attention of an unfamiliar tenor; the same undoubtedly owned by the woman at the doorway.  She didn't look any less severe than she had upon first entrance, but Spike wagered that she had held back a little of her usual attitude and forwardness.  "Excuse me," she said, before immediately finding herself the center of attention.  "Not that I'm not sure this all very important, not to mention interesting, but there are more imperative things right now.  Cordelia, I—"

"Right, right," the brunette agreed sharply.  "Spike, this is Detective Kate Lockley.  You'll like her; she hates Angel.  Anyway, she's here on behalf of Wolfram and Hart."

"Spike?" Lockley repeated, arching an incredulous vampire.  There was no mistaking the note of distaste that colored her voice.  "As in, one of them?  More vampires?"

Zack pivoted sharply to her, his interest suddenly piqued.

The peroxide Cockney rolled his eyes.  "Oh for cryin'…twice in one night.  Yes, I'm a vampire.  There, 's out.  Everyone stop makin' a big thing outta it.  I'm a vampire.  A bad, evil, scary, vampire—"

"Not really helping the cause," Cordelia warned through her teeth.

"And I would reconsider the 'scary'," Gunn suggested.  

Wesley stepped forward, intrigued.  "You know about Spike?" he asked softly.

Kate nodded, her distrustful gaze never abandoning the peroxide vampire.  "Yes," she replied.  "After the truth about Angel came out in all its deceitful glory, I spent quite a few days becoming very acquainted with his family tree."  She took a few bold steps toward the Cockney, accusing eyes refusing to falter.  "I know all about you.  William the Bloody, right?  For impaling people with railroad spikes?"

A terribly flustered look overwhelmed him, and Spike backpedaled.  "Erm, no.  Tha's where the nickname comes from.  William the Bloody an' all that rot's a very dull, not-worth-mentionin'—"

"So, two nasty monikers," Zack muttered distastefully.  "Great."

"The other one's for butcherin' somethin' a li'l less human, mate."  He turned back to Lockley.  "Not that it matters for rot now.  I really don' give a damn what you think of me, luv.  You say you came 'ere on behalf of Wolfram an' Hart?  'Ave you heard her?  Seen her?  Is she—"

"What are you talking about?"

Gunn snickered.  "We never got to tell you.  Spike here's a little preoccupied with a heroic rescue mission.  Seems your favorite vamp snagged his favorite Slayer.  Trust me, you'll have the full story soon.  Damn Brit can't talk about anything but."

"I haven't heard anything about a Slayer," Lockley replied.  "Only that you mentioned one a minute ago.  What is that?  Another demon?"

Spike rolled his eyes.  "You did all your vamp homework but never bothered to look up the Slayer?  Wow.  A true note in investigative reportin'.  Nice work, Detective."  He turned expectantly to Wesley.  "Well, go ahead.  This is your territory, right?"

At that, the former Watcher rolled his eyes and straightened.  He looked like a schoolboy about make a recitation of a speech had long ago memorized and grown bored with.  "In every generation there is a Chosen One," he said monotonously.  "She alone will stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.  She is the Slayer."  He shook his head.  "God, I never realized how much that sounds like some deranged fraternity chant."

"You actually have one in custody," Cordelia said.  "Remember Faith?  The fugitive that Angel was harboring last year that you pulled a major wig over?"  She paused at that.  "Oh wait.  You do that over everything.  Anyway, never mind, she was a Slayer."

Lockley frowned in confusion, gesturing to Wesley.  "But he just said there's just one in every generation," she replied.  "How—"

"Something about how Buffy died for like a second.  It called the next Slayer, even if she didn't formally kick it," Cordelia explained.  "It's a screwy, flawed system.  What can I say?  Anyway, she and Angel had this torrid love affair that ended in general nastiness—"

Spike snickered.

"—so, naturally, as Angelus, she would be one of the first people he'd wanna target.  Wolfram and Hart decided to take it a step up in that direction.  They had Darla and Drusilla—you've read about Dru, right?—snatch her up from Sunnydale.  Spike here has, for whatever reason, developed the major Buffy-boner, and—"

"Oi!"

Cordelia rolled her eyes.  "Puhlease, Spike.  You're not fooling anyone." 

Gunn shook his head, smothering an arrogant smile.  "You're really not."

"Hell," Zack offered, grinning broadly now.  "I've only known you for an hour and I could tell that right off."

"Other than the fact that I _told_ you right off," Spike retorted.  Then he was sulking.  "Right.  'S not like the lot of you have to rub it in."

In an odd moment of synchronicity, the three locked gazes and marked their objection.  "Yes we do," they decided.

"Regardless," Kate interrupted, dragging everyone back into hindsight.  "Lindsey didn't tell me any of this.  All he said was that Angel had turned and that I should—"

"Lindsey told you as much as he could without incriminating himself," Wesley clarified slightly.  "I know he's being indicted for warning us before Angelus could tear us apart.  Bringing you in is not going to help him, and Wolfram and Hart does not tolerate negligence on the company line."

"He's doing as much as he can without getting himself sacked," Gunn agreed.  "And that's the literal sort.  Sacked and dumped somewhere."

Spike sighed, caressing his brow with the foreknowledge of an impending headache.  "So, this bloke din't mention Buffy?"

"The Slayer?" He nodded.  "No.  Just that…I should come here."

"Well, that was right considerate of him."

"How are you hoping to get close to her, anyway?" Cordelia asked.  "It's not like you can walk in there and say, 'Oh, by the way, you know that blonde that you snatched from Sunnydale? Well, we'd really like her back, if you don't mind.' Honestly, have you thought this through at all?"

His eyes widened.  "'ve done all I can!  Came to you sods, let you drag me to some demon pub, bloody _sang, _an' nearly waved goodbye to my dusty bits 'cause I thought it'd be of some sodding use.  What was that?  A bloody rouse?  I'm not used to playin' a white hat!  This is the best I can do.  A li'l help would be appreciated." An irritated string of profanity perturbed the air, and he began pacing.  "God, this is all so buggered up.  'F I 'ad jus' kept my big mouth bloody shut in SunnyD, I could've gone with 'em an' gotten her out that way.  But oh no.  Darla the Fucking Herald has to mention that li'l diddy after she's so bloody sure I'd decline an'…God, I wanna rip her innards out."

A shadow flickered over Zack's face.  "Get in line," he said quietly.

"Can't you just contact them and say that you've changed your mind?" Cordelia wondered.

Spike's gaze narrowed.  "Yeh, 'cause that won't look suspicious at all."

"Well, sorry!  I'm just trying to be helpful."

"Wait," Wesley said, stepping forward.  "Angelus's pattern is to torture his victims extensively.  If Buffy has been in his hands this long, it is safe to consider that she has already—"

A very still, very cold note rang through the room.  Spike's hands formed fists at his sides, his bumpies threatening to emerge on the very thought.  The look he delivered was sharp and dangerous, and everyone in the room, regardless of disposition, was suddenly very grateful for the chip.  "Finish that sentence," he growled, "an' I'll make you wish you were never born."

Zack's brows arched skeptically.

Cordelia was quieted for the moment, but decided to go for broke anyway.  Her voice was considerably softer than before.  Meek and, if possible, frightened.  "Gee Spike," she said with a slight titter.  "Cliché much?"

It was silent for another long moment.

"Okay," Gunn said loudly, snapping everyone back into place as he rubbed his hands together.  "And we've established that Spike can still be scary.  All opposed?  All right.  I stand corrected.  Either way, man, chill.  It was nothing personal.  I think Wes was just trying to make a point."

"I was," the former Watcher agreed.  "Admittedly, I have never encountered Angel in his…darker state…I don't believe that he would have…" He glanced up hesitantly, but the vampire's eyes had softened even if his glare had not.  "I don't believe he would have killed Buffy, despite the consistency of habit.  With a Slayer, I believe he would…"

"Make it as painful as possible," Lockley voiced from her corner.  She earned a glare for her observation, but matched it all the same.  "And that means as long as possible.  Right?"

"Precisely."  Wesley nodded before turning back to the platinum vampire. "But you wouldn't know that.  If you approach the Order now with the front that you seek penance for your…transgression without Buffy involved, then—"

"Why would they believe that Spike wouldn't know this Slayer chick is alive?" Zack demanded.  "I'd think that a vamp that knows them as well as he does would have figured all this out sooner than two people who've read up on it."

The peroxide Cockney pointed to him appraisingly.  "The boy's gotta point.  Theory doesn' fly, Wes."

"Because you know Angelus's mannerisms better than anyone."

"'E's not gonna be too keen on believin' me as it is.  Last time I was face-to-face with the Great Poofter in all his evil glory, I tried to knock his head off with a crowbar."

Cordelia's eyes widened.  "Really?"

"Remember that whole Acathla thing?  Yeh.  Pulled a truce with Buffy then, too."  Spike snorted.  "For the 'good of human kind.'"

"You didn't have a thing for her then, did you?"

His eyes widened, appalled.  "Of bloody course not!" came the vehement denial, followed irrefutably by a sea of unconvinced gazes.  "Well, it wasn' what I feel for her now.  More like mutual admiration as well as raging hatred for my mortal enemy, all right?  Sure, I woulda…" He trailed off and cleared his throat.  "Truthfully, I sided with her then to get Dru back.  Dru din't take kindly to that.  An'…well, the rest isn' important."

Wesley pursed his lips.  "My point was this," he continued.  "If you call or contact Angelus, Darla…whomever it is that you would…to see if their offer still stands, and presume a façade of surprise when word of the Slayer is mentioned, then—"

"They'll still find it suspicious, mate," Spike retorted.  "Trust me.  No one makes for a sudden change of heart of that bloody magnitude.  Not where they're concerned.  An' I was much too forthright with my…feelings for the Slayer when Darla chatted me up, 'cause I'm a right wanker."

"How forthright?" Cordelia asked.

"She mentioned Dru was attackin' Buffy, an' I bolted from my crypt."

"Wow," the brunette commended, brows arched.  "You're dumb."

"To say the least."  Then he frowned.  "Oi!"

Zack ducked his head to shadow the grin that instinctually claimed his lips.

"Regardless of plausibility," Wesley continued, holding up a hand.  "Does anyone here have a better proposition?  If we cannot get Spike to work from the inside, then getting Buffy out and to safety is going to take a measure of cunning that she might not have time to sit around and wait for.  In spite of Angelus's altered mode of operation, he will eventually tire of her."  His eyes focused intently on the flustered peroxide vampire.  "Won't he?"

There was nothing to say to that.  Spike's silence spoke for all the things that he could not.

"If Darla refuses to adhere to her offer, then we need to know now," the former Watcher decided firmly. "Else, we are simply wasting time…and that is something that Buffy cannot afford."

A beat of reflective silence settled through the lobby.  Calmly tense in some incongruous respect.  Spike turned away, afraid his eyes would betray the weight of his concern—something that, despite whatever jokes had been made at his expense, had only been explored in the quantity of the iceberg's tip.  A fraction of what awaited in a sea of uncharted feelings.  His plethora that insisting on maintaining a safe, steadfast distance.

The wrong decision could cost the Slayer her life.

And he would never recover.  Never forgive himself.

Too much was riding on a simple yes or no.

"Spike," Wesley said softly.  "If this fails, we will find another way.  I promise.  We're going to put up a fight…we just need to know where we stand."

And that was that.  The vampire nodded, realizing for the strike of no particular epiphany that he truly wasn't alone.  A notion that struck deep—engorged firmly in his gut in a way that was unsurpassable to any sense of belonging that he had ever felt with the Scoobies.  The dawn of new reason.

These people were going to help him.  Trust him.  Because they wanted to.

"Right," he agreed, closing his eyes as he reached the end of his proverbial tunnel.  One of them.  The first of many.  "So how do I go 'bout this?  Waltz into Wolfram an' Hart an' schedule an appointment with the Great Poof between torture sessions?"

"Call Lindsey," Cordelia offered.  "He's our best bet right now."

"Great.  Leave it in the hands of the lackey."

"He has a thing for Darla.  She trusts him."

"Even with all the runnin' around behind their backs that he's done?"

At that, Lockley spoke up.  "I don't think they know about that.  From what McDonald told me, the firm is trying to keep the Order as secluded as possible from their outer dealings.  They want them at their disposal if and when the time comes…but Darla had set the grounding that they're not going to be working for the firm; the firm would be working for them."

Zack bristled and turned from the crowd.  "Some things never change."

Spike extended his arms in open welcome of advice, brows quirking as he surveyed the room for the first taker.  "All right then.  Into the bloody belly of the beast it is.  Anyone 'ave any sodding suggestions that might mark a scale on the helpful side?  I'm all ears."

There was a beat of silence and the exchange of several blank glances.

"I have the number to McDonald's private line," Lockley finally offered, stepping forward and digging out a business card. It was to the dry-cleaners, Spike noted with some amusement, but the extension to Lindsey's line was scribbled on the back. "He wanted…well, he wanted me to keep in touch.  In case things got out of line."

"What were you gonna do?" Cordelia demanded skeptically.  "Throw stones at Angel?  Hon, he's not exactly gonna be a pushover.  The only reason you got close to him in the past was because he _was Angel.  Angelus is a completely different matter."_

Spike nodded but snatched the proffered number up anyway.  "Yeh," he murmured.  "Luv, you can read up on us all you bloody well want to.  Din't do much good for Zangy over here."  He gestured to Zack, who looked both confused and slightly affronted at the brandishing of a random nickname, but everyone else seemed to follow without hindrance.  "'m not the bloke I'm depicted to be throughout history—though some of the stuff they've jotted down is right complimentary.  I did a lot of badness, but I wasn' as…" The vampire stopped again when he realized he was the center of several pointedly accusing glares and held out his hands again.  "All right, I was a mean, nasty bastard.  But Angelus?  Much as I hate to admit it, you can't confine what 'e did to others to paper an' expect any degree of accuracy.  The stuff I've read up on him for laughs paints a monster, but not a legend.  An' that's what he strove for.  The bloody legend.  Had to be the best at everythin'.  When it came to bein' a nasty bugger, he beat out the lot of us."

"I think the best option is to call Lindsey," Wesley maintained.  "Establish contact.  Claim that you have rethought your position, and now wish to rejoin your family.  If they don't buy it, at least we know where we stand."

There was a heavy breath of concession.  Spike's eyes found the ground, evidently fascinated with an unmoving spot etched across the marble.  When he spoke again, the tenor of his voice had dropped several degrees.  Nearly compassionate; the closest to human anyone had ever seen him approach.  It wasn't prompted—it was just.  And that made it all the more real.  "I'm hesitant to do anythin'," he admitted softly.  "'m…what 'f they jus' kill her?  'Cause of me?"

A note of respected silence flittered through the air.  

"It's a bad situation," Lockley finally said.  The statement in itself was more than obvious, but her observation of its existence was somehow soothing.  Even if the line of sincerity was difficult to draw.

"They're not going to wait around for you to make a move," Wright added.  "It's not like they know you're in town."

Cordelia arched a brow.  "Actually, they probably do.  It's hard for a pin to drop in this city without Wolfram and Hart being all over it."

"But that doesn't mean they're relating the information to Angelus and Darla," Wesley continued.  "Chances are, if Lindsey is in charge—"

"—I don't know that he's in charge," Lockley interceded sharply. "He's just the one who contacted me."

"Be that as it may, I don't believe he would have gone out of his way unless he thought that things were slipping from the firm's control.  Wolfram and Hart might be a powerful, deadly force, but the Order of Aurelius has older blood working at its side.  Darla is four hundred, and her sire was the oldest in recorded history."  The former Watcher stroked his jaw in thought, breaking into a segmented and more sedated pace that mimicked Spike in stride if not in speed.  "Lindsey's warning to us came out of civility.  It wasn't because he thought that the situation had exceeded their control.  His move to use you, Detective, as a bargaining tool, solidifies his status.  He doesn't want to be directly implicated.  If his pattern has shown anything, it's that he is deliberately taking baby steps, attempting to keep Angelus from the loop of what is going on in the corporate office."  He stopped and glanced up.  "And in doing so, I believe they will try to keep Buffy alive as long as possible." 

Zack frowned.  "Why?"

"To keep them occupied," Gunn concluded.  

Spike shook his head, unconvinced.  "I still don' see how tha's gonna amount to rot.  'F Peaches finds somethin' he wants done, 'e does it.  Sod the wankers in charge an' all that.  An' yeh, she'll keep him busy for a while.  Doin' things…to her…" He stopped once more and his eyes went dark.  It didn't take as long as expected.  Rather, the platinum vampire drew in a deep breath and nodded after a few seconds.  "Right.  Right.  'S better to know now where we stand.  'F they touch her, I'll—"

Everyone immediately tensed again at the sign of an impending tangent.  Gunn seized initiative; stepping forward sharply and placing a neutral hand on the vampire's shoulder.  "Save it for the baddies, man.  I think I speak for everyone when I say, we know what you're going to do them isn't pretty."

"Yeesh," Cordelia agreed, nodding emphatically.  "I can only imagine.  Have I told you recently that you've got it to a degree of bad that I thought couldn't be achieved before?"

Spike snickered but didn't reply, turning instead to Lockley.  "Right then," he said diplomatically.  "Looks like I got me a phone call to make."

To be continued in Chapter Fifteen: _Ashes_… 


	16. Ashes

**Disclaimer: **May contain graphic/disturbing imagery****

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**Chapter Fifteen**

**Ashes**

It didn't take long to decide that there were a few missing principles to be satisfied before something even as rudimentary as a phone call could be accomplished.  Two seconds after the vampire's announcement, Wesley made the obligatory observation that maintaining a separation from Angel Investigations was imperative to the success of their endeavor, and that Wolfram and Hart would certainly have the means to deduce that Spike's phone call came from the Hyperion.  Being that the Cockney lacked a cell phone of his own, it took several minutes of persuasion and finally a concession from Zack Wright that his own could be forfeited.  He did not like the idea of Darla being that close to recognizing his name—for reasons he still refused to disclose—but conceded that it was likely more important for this Slayer person to be apprehended than to keep his continued ambiguity maintained.

That wasn't to say his personal feelings on the matter had alleviated any.  While the trip to Angel Investigations had definitely made him more personable, there was a suspicious leer in his eyes that clearly established his discontent in being centered in such negotiations.  His objective was Darla's death—that much was all he would release.  And true, it was obvious that he felt a string of curiosity where Buffy Summers was concerned.

The fact that she was something connected to the higher influence in worldly apprehension and perpetual fight against demons helped considerably.  And, though he refused to comment in one way or another, Spike suspected that he was also tempted by human curiosity.  To see this person that could bring the notorious William the Bloody to his knees with no additive influence other than her being.  Her goodness.

"Remember," Wesley said cautiously, "he might have been instructed to lead you on in a certain way.  Don't take anything to heart.  We'll have Detective Lockley phone him immediately following—"

"Yeh, yeh," Spike said dismissively, hoping his tone masked how anxious he was.  With as much as he wanted to have this over with, there was a certain measure of safety in the imprecision.  As long as he remained ignorant, Buffy could still be rescued.  She was still waiting for him.  Still there, if only a trip across town from reach.

If he received word that the worst had already happened, that safety net was robbed from him.  He couldn't imagine it.  A world without the Slayer.  Without her.

Funny.  With as often as he had tried to kill her in the past, he had never thought through to conclusion the effect of her death.  He would have mourned even then.  To see the pass of such a formidable foe.  There had been Slayers in the past and, however he wished to deny it, there would be Slayers in the future.  But there was only one Buffy.  Only one worthy of the title mortal enemy.  The others had not the chance to come halfway as close as she had to delving beyond the protective walls he had put up, even without realizing it.  Those established when he died.  When he abolished humanity from his system.  When he discovered the trophy of Slayer blood.  When Drusilla left him. 

Buffy Summers had broken through all of them.  She had, in essence, made him human all over again.  A terrifying realization.  One he resented with every fiber of his being.  He hated her for it.  He worshipped her for it.  He had wished her dead more times than he could count, but love betrayed him with more power than he could credit.  His love for her was the most frightening enterprise he had ever undertaken; he knew it had the power to consume him, break him, destroy him.  He had already crossed more boundaries than he ever thought possible.  And there were others ahead.

He wouldn't stop until she was back.  Until he had her home.

Even if she never returned anything of what he wanted to offer. 

He would have sworn his heart started beating again as the phone rang.  While he had not requested it, he almost wished the others had left him in peace for this.  It was Wesley's observation that at least one person needed to be present in case he looked to lose it with whatever Lindsey related, but a group audience seemed on the side of overkill.  

Spike chuckled inwardly in spite of himself.  He never thought he would see the day when he complained about overkill.  There was definitely a first for everything.

The phone was answered on the fifth ring.  A sharp and disinterested call into the receiver.  "McDonald."

And just like that, every reservation the vampire had carried dissolved just as easily.  He was pacing, but more to keep moving than out of anxiety.  "The very same…oh, how'd she put it…'charmingly ignorant personal association' that Darla mentioned when she dropped by?"

There was a pause.  He could almost smell the air heating with awareness.

Then the man cleared his throat and dropped something that sounded like a pen.  "William the Bloody, I presume?"

"'S Spike, mate.  Jus' Spike.  I'm not interested in a bunch of bollocks made to up my rep.  Do that enough on my own."  The vampire glanced briefly to Cordelia, finding solace in her presence for a random, unidentified courtesy.  "I know I'm a li'l late for the party, but you see, I 'ave this problem.  Last year, a group of government—"

"Yes, the chip.  We have the information on you.  More than you likely realize."  There was a heady pause.  "Darla, however, related that you had declined her offer, and all the benefits that came with it.  I don't suppose this call is to reverse the implications of that status.  Certainly, you have been informed that Wolfram and Hart contracts are structured on a one-time-only basis."

Spike's eyes narrowed, and he felt his patience begin to ebb.  "This contract isn't with Wolfram an' Bloody Hart, you enormous ponce.  'S with—" There was a loud cough.  Cordelia's gaze had pointed warningly and forced him to calm without a word in the affirmative.  "'m callin' 'cause I changed my mind."

"The contract the standing members of the Order established _is _connected to the Senior Partners."  Another pompous pause.  The vampire decided without any incentive in either direction that he did not like this wanker one bit.  "Either way, I was told you might be in contact.  Something about your family being in possession of something you want.  The message I am to give you is as follows…" McDonald cleared his throat again.  "'Tell my dearest that Angelus has already given me my treat, and that mummy fixed all that was wrong.  It's over now.  We made a banquet of her heart.'  It was done shortly after they arrived, I believe.  Truthfully, Mister—oh I'm sorry—_Spike, _we haven't kept much contact with them for the past few days.  But I was instructed to tell you that if it's the Slayer you seek, it's too late in that regard.  She has already been taken care of."

In all honesty, Spike wasn't sure how he stopped his legs from collapsing.  How his brain continued to function.  How his motor skills didn't abandon him.  How he failed to crumple to his knees and scream his pain.  Somewhere secluded, his mind switched to autopilot as the rest of him bowed with the infliction of every holy relic he had ever thought to encounter. An inward mantra initiated immediately, reassuring him that it was a rouse.  That McDonald was acting under orders.  That he had been told to relate the same.  That Buffy was dead.  But he found no comfort in empty promises.  From here, from where he stood, all was lost. He couldn't see her.  Couldn't feel or taste her.  If it were true, if she was dead, blood would run in the streets. There would be anger, then vengeance, then sorrow.  Tears purchased with crimson tidings.  

Right now, though, there was nothing.  A big, empty nothing.

"Well, then 's a bloody good thing I'm not callin' about the sodding Slayer, isn't it?!" he heard himself shout.  Distant.  As though watching his form on a screen with no say as to what came out of his mouth.  What lie conjured that could be spread with any degree of persuasion.  "Tell that wanker Angelus that I have a piece to speak with him, an' to be at Caritas tomorrow.  Sunset.  You got me?"

"I will relate the message," Lindsey replied conversationally.  There was no evidence of the slightest intimidation.  That something he would never get used to.  Being a vampire that didn't invoke fear. "My apologies for the misunderstanding.  I'm sure he will be most interested to hear what you have to say."

Spike muttered some form of a begrudging farewell and disconnected the call.

Then dropped the phone.  The small instrument landed haphazardly, and the otherwise still reverberation sounded through the lobby with the brunt of a minute strike of lightening.

The vampire's eyes remained studiously on the ground.  He was not going to break down in front of these wankers.  He was not going to let them know how the very thought—the threat of her being gone affected him.  How he felt like dying a thousand times over.  Like kissing the sun to have it all fade from tangibility.

How he could feel the world for someone who would never feel the same.

The first voice that dared perturb the air was Cordelia's—the sympathy crashing from her aura nearly perceptible.  "Spike…" she said softly.  "Maybe you should…sit down or something.  You're…well, you're pale.  Well, _obviously_ you're pale.  You're dead.  But you're even…paler than usual.  And I think it'd be a good idea if—"

He held up a hand.  "There are rooms upstairs?  Empty ones?"

The brunette nodded emphatically.  "Totally.  I mean, it's a hotel, right?  And there's only Angel here…mostly…but he's gone, so you can take his—"

He was not going to Angel's room.  

And, to her credit, Cordelia seemed to catch on to that with no hindrance.  "Or there's another room.  There are…well, hundreds…literally.  I think there's one with an old bed…I haven't gone up there all that much, but Angel had some telekinetic chick staying with him a while back.  Try room 308.  Okay?"

Spike nodded and moved for the staircase wordlessly.

He needed to be away from them before he broke down.

It was still in the lobby until the definitive click of a door locking rang through the dead air.  Cordelia glanced to Wright for a minute, who was surprised that such a small note could carry that far. She murmured something about acoustics.  The hotel was large and eerie, and most certainly not without its surprises.

"He gonna be all right?" Gunn asked, gracing the upper level with an arched brow.

"As long as she is," Wesley replied.  He had remained diligently quiet throughout the exchange, watching the Cockney's alteration of manner and mood with more than a note of fascination.  It was enough of a marvel to work around a vampire trying to repent for two hundred years' worth of evildoings, but for a demon to develop such a whim of redemption out of love…it sounded as though it were plucked out of a fairytale.  

Now was not the time for such regard.  Sharply, the former Watcher pivoted to Lockley and delivered a short, sharp nod.  "You better phone Lindsey," he said.  "Tell him everything you can, save, of course, that Spike is here with us.  Find out what happened to Buffy."

She looked at him blankly.  "Why would I care what happened to Buffy?" she retorted.  "I'm not even supposed to know she's there.  Or that she exists at all."

"Tell him that a man named Rupert Giles called the Hyperion and told us everything."

"Why would McDonald disclose any of that information to me?  He'd only be incriminating himself more."

Gunn stared at her blankly.  "Never thought I'd see the day when you'd be hesitant to uphold the law."

"I'm not here as an officer.  I'm here—"

"So?  Big whup.  That doesn't mean that you aren't one."

Wesley sighed.  "You're here.  Period.  That is all that matters. You're here because he called you.  Right now, _Detective,_ that makes you one of us.  That makes you the enemy.  He chose to speak through you once."  There was a heady pause.  "In any case, the girl is an innocent.  She's being tortured and worse by the very being that you hate.  Not Angel.  Not the nice version.  She's in the hands of the creature that warrants your aversion.  We need to know what happened to her."  He glanced upward once more to the empty corridor.  It was silent.  "Spike deserves to know.  He's come this far."

"Did you see the look on his face?" Cordelia demanded.  "He's completely in love with her!"

"So it would seem," Wright commented.  

"All the more reason for us to find out what truly happened."  Wesley stepped away, shaking his head.  "The last thing we need is an enraged, heartbroken vampire on our hands."

"He can't hurt us, though," Gunn observed.  "We've all seen it."

"I haven't," Kate volunteered, reaching for her phone all the same.

"Well, take my word for it."

"I'm not worried about us," Wesley said.  His eyes were fixed on the upper level.

He would not elaborate.

*~*~*

Spike sat on the edge of a barren mattress, staring at the blank wall as though he expected it to speak.

Somewhere deep within himself, he had already made solace with the understanding that whatever Lindsey told him was untrue.  There was no way the Slayer would have been killed already, even if such were Angelus's ultimate intention.

But hearing it.  Hearing it from someone who was there.  Who had the potential to be there for her; see her, touch her, feel her every day…it was enough to make the false truth realer than the best kill in his colored, flawed past.

The truth—the authentic truth—was more terrifying than that.  Because the day would ultimately come when the same call would not be a lie.  When he would lose her.  When she would slip away from him without ever having been his at all.  And it made him wonder.  The ponderous strains of mortality, and all its terrible pragmatism.  Was it better to lose her like this?  When he didn't know the warmth of her touch except for what she offered in the fantasies she visited?  The dreams she starred in?  Or would his will collapse for the knowledge of what had never been.  The loss of an idea—of something that would have been perfection if he had been, just for one second, allowed within the protective boundaries of _her—_so distant.  So rare.   So…Buffy.

His face was wet and his eyes were raw.  Bloody wanker.  

"She's alive."

The voice came from the door.  He had sensed Zack there for a minute or so.

Spike sighed and wiped his face free of tears.  "I know."

Evidently, that was all the invitation the demon hunter felt he needed.  He stepped into the room and moved quietly to the mattress, studying his vampire foe curiously.  Spike made no move to acknowledge him otherwise, though as all good prey, he knew to keep alert.  The man was one who killed his kind for sport, and even in the hindsight of their unlikely truce, he might find flaw in the vampire's being.

Once more, he was surprised.

"'I know'?" Wright asked, arching a brow.  He assumed a seat on the mattress, preserving a good foot between them.  "I half expected you to get up and dance."

"I don' dance."

"Yeah, and you don't sing.  It seems you've made all kinds of exceptions tonight."

There was an appreciative snicker.  "'ve been makin' exceptions for the past year."

Wright nodded his agreement.  "I'd say falling in love with your mortal enemy checks as a big one."

"So you're gonna admit that that's what it is, then?"

"What?"

"Figured a big vamp-hatin' demon hunter like you'd be one of the firs' to contest the idea that vampires can feel anythin' at all."  Spike turned to look at him, eyes expressive but distant.  "That love where we're concerned is possible."

He shrugged.  "I was skeptical at first."

"I've known you for the better of two hours.  You've had enough time to change your mind?"

"You've given me enough to change it on."  Zack sighed heavily and turned to mimic the vampire's pose, even if it was subconscious.  "I don't think in all the years that I've been hunting demons that I've ever seen one react to bad news the way you did downstairs."

"I don' reckon you've met many demons with implants in their noggins."

"It's more than that."

But he did not explain how.

There was a brief silence.  Oddly comfortable.  The settlings between two people who had no reason to greet each other with anything resembling amiability.  Mixed and matched among a sea of others just like them.  In any other context, Spike would have second-guessed himself and his motives; it was hardly as though this was the first time he had sided with the enemy.

The voice that was becoming not-so-little whispered another prettied lie about how the conventional enemy had reversed sides in the past year.  He was the only vampire in the vicinity, unsouled and very blood-happy…yet in a hotel room managed by people who went out of their way to do good, preparing to battle his own kind to save the Slayer.  Selflessly.  Without motive or cause.  Without aspirations of achieving something higher.  Of convincing her of anything that would tally one mark under his name.  While his mind had entertained certain fantasies involving Buffy, a tall tower, and a stylishly wankerish version of himself saving her for the sort of ending the people of those breeding enjoyed, he knew it could never be so.  Because she was far above him.  She was the light that could never be touched, lest he crumple to dust.

Spike took a deep breath.  Comfortable or not, he hated silences.  "So…" he began, cautious but conversational.  Despite their standing, he would never allow himself to forget that this was the same man that had greeted him with many a-crossbow arrows.  He would never deny himself on a thirst for knowledge or—better yet—really amusing tales, but he wouldn't go out of the way to get on a pulser's bad side.  It wasn't as though he had numerous means of protecting himself.  "Wha's the story?"

Wright spared him a glance but complied.  "Kate called that Lindsey person…is he a guy?"

"Either that, or a very butch chit."

"Well, in a nutshell, he told her that the Slayer was alive.  Not _fine, _but alive."  There was a sigh.  "Neither mentioned you.  She told him that someone named Giles had contacted Wes and—"

The vampire nodded.  "Thanks," he said softly.

"Don't mention it."

"But that wasn' the story I was askin' about."  He grinned when the other man frowned his displacement.  It always was fun catching them at ends.  "Oh, come on, Zangy.  How do you expect us to become the very best of friends 'f you don' share a tale or two?"

Wright blinked.  Once.  Twice.  "The very best of what?"

Spike snickered and waved dismissively.  

That wasn't the end of it.  His humor failed to register as appropriate, or funny in the slightest.  Instead, a dark scowl befell Zack's face, and an unrepentant glare commanded the stormy seas of his eyes.  It was amazing how quickly a man's temperament could alter.  The flick of wrist.  The snap of a finger.  This was no different.  Any sense of amity evaporated.   "Let's get one thing very straight," he snapped.  "We're never going to be friends.  Ever.  I'm here to get something that was wronged fixed again.  My helping you is an unfortunate consequence.  I don't give a damn about you or your kind, and I fucking pity this Slayer—whoever she is—if you're what she has waiting for her.  Jesus Christ…"

There were moments when Spike reckoned he was older fashioned than he cared to concede.  While his temper was hardly difficult to offset, it took more than a personal remark to get his bloody boiling in the most metaphoric of senses.  Say a word against him, he got irritated.  Utter a syllable that could be construed as negative against those he loved—Buffy Summers, for example—earned punishment that would put God's wrath to shame.

But he couldn't do anything beyond anger.  He couldn't resort to the violence he craved.  All he could do was watch from the sidelines.  

"Look, _mate," _he growled.  "You're the one who came up here to chat.  Leave the bird—"

"I came up here to tell you that your girlfriend is all right."

"She's not my…" The Cockney trailed off longingly before snapping back to the present.  "Why even bother 'f 's such a bloody inconvenience?  You hate me, remember?  Say what you want—do whatever you sodding please—but leave her outta this.  She's done nothin' but save the world an' kill all the nasties that get your knickers perpetually twisted.  She's a bloody hero, 's what she is.  An' I'm jus' tryin' to get her back from some fairly nasty blokes—one of whom I know you've met—to save her from a fucking clichéd fate worse than death.  Am I a vampire?  Well, yeh, last I checked.  Don' believe I've sported a pulse an' a heartbeat since.  Am I evil?  Bloody right.  I'm not tryin' to score points here, you git.  I jus' want to get her home."

At that, Zack was quieted.  There was nothing for several beats.

Then Spike exhaled in concession, reaching for his cigarettes.

"Come on," he urged.  "'F you're gonna be up here enjoyin' the dark with a beastie, you might as well tell a tale or two.  I know it was Darla.  Wasn' difficult to piece that together.  What'd she do?"

There was another lengthy silence.  The same that spoke for everything that Wright refused to relate.  It was that and more.  The comprehension that, despite notable differences, the man had been molded into the form he was in now because of consequences.  Severe consequences.  Darla had the ability to turn anyone into a drunkard.  

He had the nagging feeling that she had done more than simply kill someone that Zachary Wright had cared for.  And in that regard, despite all the mutual aversion between them, he could understand.  Even relate.

Relate.

With humans.

The heart of his final corruption.  He was within a breath of being one of them.

Silence grew and waned, and the vampire's suspicion became more belligerent.  He decided that not only had Darla hurt this man by robbing him of whatever joy he had previously had in the world, that she had take his own _Buffy.  _The one that made him—made and broke him in one fell swoop.  The one that was his reason.  His oxygen.  His blood.  His life, in essence.  

In Spike's eyes, that was unforgivable.

He decided to go for broke.  After that, if nothing came of it, he would let it lie.  

It was Xander's fault.  This sudden urge to chat up every past ugly an analyze it.  Though that standing had no support, he knew it was always better to blame the whelp if doubt was ever on the prowl.

"Was it your honey?" he ventured speculatively, lighting up.

A sigh at that.  Distant and elusive, but not as tempered as before.  One of concession.  He knew well that sound.

"It happened…" Wright began softly, nearly unaware that he was speaking.  A pain he had forfeited and swallowed.  Too long ignored, too soon refreshed.  One of nature's delightfully excruciating ploys. "It happened so long ago.  I don't even…most people…those I've come across…they remember every last detail of what happened to them.  I can't tell you how many men I've talked to who lost wives or children.  Sisters, brothers…that sort of thing.  I guess you could call me a profiteer, but I don't like to think about it like that.  I've never been in this for the pay.  Not once.  I've done too many freebies and the like…no.  To me, it's all about the leads.  It's always been the kill."

Spike gave him a very long look, then nodded with astute precision.  "Good to know," he decided.

"The people, though, the others…they remember every detail." Wright exhaled deeply and shook his head.  "I don't.  Seven years have passed and I've spent every day trying to forget.  Trying to get…  I've heard too many stories.  Eventually, the details start to mesh and everything becomes one long, bloody drama with the same people killed again and again.  It wasn't easy.  Forgetting.  I've worked at it so hard for so long.  It took forty-seven states, and god knows how many kills.  I've forgotten now."

The vampire's brows perked.  "Forty-seven, eh?"

"I go anywhere.  Everywhere.  And I've forgotten how I met Darla.  Where she was.  Why I was there.  Why we spoke to each other.  Why I didn't kill her on the spot."  Another lengthy break.  Spike waited with not much patience but more perceptiveness than any demon should think to relate.  "She hunted me.  I remember that much.  She sought me out.  After I read up on her, I figured that she was looking for a replacement-Angelus.  Guess I was the best candidate."

The peroxide Cockney snickered at that.  "She wanted you to fill in King Forehead's space?  Bloody hell.  Either she's risen her standards or stopped carin'."  He grinned in spite of himself, but Zack didn't reply.  He was too lost in his own words, however brief.  

"There was a problem, of course.  A complication."

Spike nodded and exhaled a pillar of smoke.  "Always is."  He paused and tossed the hunter speculative glance, sensing the next without any difficulty at all.  "What was her name?"

It was amazing, watching the seasons of human emotion change.  From cold to warm in two seconds flat.  The soft glow that warmed the ice behind Zack's eyes.  The winter storm's upheaval in light of the first day of summer.  Melting all that painful residue.  He wondered briefly if he looked like that whenever Buffy was mentioned, and sincerely hoped not.  If his eyes revealed half as much, it was a wonder the entire Scooby clan hadn't made his chest a haven for all sorts of stakes.

Like everything else, Zack put his everything behind the utterance of one word.  Breathing it as though its existence would determine his own.  "Amber."

"She was your bird?"

A blink at that.  The spell broke without ceremony.  "My…what?"

Spike rolled his eyes and indulged another puff.  "Your girl, mate.  She was—"

"Oh.  No.  More than that.  She was my wife."  

At that, the vampire's gaze widened.  He hadn't expected that sort of revelation.  Though time and anger had worn the man's features, giving him the appearance of several years older than his likely age, he hadn't reckoned the bloke to having been hitched.  

"We got married when we were freshmen in college, if that's what you're thinking," Wright noted off Spike's skeptical look.  "Very young and stupid.  We thought it was all so romantic.  It felt right, and that was all that mattered.  I had loved her since the moment I saw her.  I went through…everything just to earn a look from her.  A smile.  A laugh.  She had the most…I can't even think of a word…her laugh was just…musical.  Her eyes…" He broke then, realizing he had been rambling with a flush as he coughed and turned away.  "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

Spike quirked a brow.  "'Cause I'm listenin'?"

"I don't see why you care."

"I don't, to be truthful.  Jus' the same as I reckon you don' care for rot either way 'f I get Buffy back safe an' sound.  But you're here, aren't you?  Might as well take you up on it."  He paused and pursed his lips.  "An' I asked.  You're an odd fellow, Zangy.  Bit more like myself than I wager you'd wanna admit."  

At that, the other man instantly drew into himself, his eyes going stony.  "I'm _nothing _like you."

Spike snickered.  "Right.  'Course.  You're too good for it."

"I sure as hell am."

"Tha's why you went outta your way to chat me up about a bird you're not supposed to care two sods about, right?"  The vampire rumbled a humorless chuckle, shaking his head incredulously.  "You're a piece of work.  Y'know that, right?"

"I—"

"You 'ave a wicked grudge.  I get that.  The story prolly goes that Darla reasoned you were out of the runnin' as her next-best mate when she discovered you already had a honey warmin' your bed.  She decides to narrow out the competition."  Spike emitted a sigh of irritation, tapping cigarette debris to the floor before reclaiming the bud with his mouth.  "You'd think four bloody centuries'd be enough to inspire a li'l originality."

If possible, the air surrounding Wright chilled even further.  And he was silent.

As if this confirmed everything, Spike nodded, even if it was more to himself.  Then he grew somber.  There were many things he knew about Darla, but none struck quite as true as her affinity for destruction.  It didn't matter at whose expense—she was a vampire, after all, and didn't care a lick for who she was hurt.  Never had.  If rejection had spawned her warpath against Zack's wife, there were several truths guaranteed.  It had been bloody, prolonged, and about as painful as three consecutive Pauly Shore movies.

Like what she was doing to Buffy.  Somewhere out there.  Right now.

Without realizing it, his hands had fisted and his jaw had tightened.

And he felt a sudden rush of furthered empathy for the demon hunter.  Something he definitely did not need.

"You ruined lives just like mine," Zack said coldly, breaking the silence.

There was no sense denying that.  "I have."

"And you don't care."

"I am what I am, mate.  I was made this way."

Wright inhaled deeply.  His entire being was trembling.  "I oughta rip you to pieces," he decided.  "Simply for being here when others aren't.  For being…for ruining what you've ruined.  For—"

Spike quirked a brow, knowing inherently that he wasn't in any real danger.  If the hunter wanted to kill him, he had been granted more than enough chances.  This discussion was nothing outside diplomacy.  Two people that were curious about each other by nature, even if that curiosity led down a path that resulted in a dead end.  "Vamps kill, Zangy.  'S what we do.  What we're made to do, an' we've been here an' doin' it a lot longer than you humanly types 'ave been wanderin' the horizon in search of _truth _an' _meanin' _an' all that other bloody rot."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Stop calling me that."

The vampire paused before grinning broadly.  "Well, now you've gone an' done it," he informed him pristinely.  "'F it annoys you, it sticks.  One of my many charms."  When all he earned was an irritated glance in turn, he sighed and looked down once more.  "Would it make you feel any better 'f I told you I'm losin' it?"

There was a long pause.  Wright made no attempt to even verify the comment had registered, but finally caved to intrinsic inquisitiveness.  "Losing what?"

"Whatever made me the way I am.  The mojo that all vamps feed off of."  Spike grumbled lightly and snubbed out his cigarette against the floor.  "'m not proud of it.  Hell, I bloody well hate what this fucking chip has done to me.  Made me more like you.  Made me feel."  A pause at that.  "Can't blame everythin' on it, though.  Even 'f I'd never realized it, I've had a yen for the Slayer for longer than I'd like to admit.  An' it's bloody ruined me."

"Oh yes," Zack snapped bitterly.  "That _must've_ been terrible."

Spike's gaze glimmered with anger.  "Jus' about as terrible as it'd be for you to fall head over for one of _us.  _Your enemy.  I'm a vampire.  She's a Slayer.  She's everythin' I'm s'posed to be against.  It's sick an' wrong, an' 'f I could rid myself of these feelings, I'd gladly do it.  But I can't."  He paused and shook his head, waving dismissively.  "Never mind.  Understanding's not in your sodding vocab, is it?  Right there alongside _miss.  _What I am…what she's made me…'s somethin' perverse.  But she's…" His eyes softened.  "She's Buffy."

The air that settled between them fell on an oddly cordial note.  As though some peace could be discovered through all the animosity.  Without a word—without a breath—ground that resembled something similar to what either man had spent the last few years looking for.  A mutual understanding.  Something that burst into the limelight of what was versus what had been.  

It was frightening; the way the smallest thing could alter one's entire universe.  

Nothing for several minutes.  Nothing, then something.  Wright drew in a deep breath and raked his fingers through his chestnut locks.  "You really love her?"

Spike nodded.  "With everythin' that I am.  She's a bloody disease.  A disease, an' its cure.  She poisons me an' brings me back all with one breath.  All in one glorious package."  

Another lapse into nothing.  Comfortable.  Familiar.

Then Wright spoke.  He spoke freely, holding onto reservation, but with a higher levity for all things around with.  He spoke in a manner that forewarned all boundaries had been forfeited.  "Amber was different than anyone I'd ever met," he stated softly, eyes glossing over even if he didn't realize it.  "She was…God, I don't even know where to begin.  Intelligent, beautiful, funny…she probably had more boyfriends in high school than I had zits."  The vampire cracked a smile but didn't comment.  "She was an over-achiever.  One of those rare people who make it to the top without becoming so full of themselves that they turn into only a shadow of the person they were.  I was…I guess I was as enchanted with her as everyone else.  It shocked the hell out of me when she finally agreed to give me a chance.  I never got over that, I don't think.  Never got over her.  And when she said she'd marry me…God, I was on Cloud Nine for…well, the three of marriage.  For the entire ride."

He broke then in unspoken offer for commentary.  Spike made none.  Just sat in silence and waited for the man to continue.  

It took a minute to find his footing, and by the cracking in his voice, it was perceptible that they were nearing dangerous territory.  "We were poor but happy.  My job was…well; it was for shit, to be blunt.  Somewhere along the way I met Darla.  I had no idea who she was.  I had no idea that vampires existed, and certainly didn't think they'd live around me were that the case.  Darla…she was…I don't have a word for it.  All I remember for sure was that she was captivated.  She spoke of things I'd never heard of.  Told me things I could have if I'd accept her offer.  I didn't.  I couldn't."

There was an emotional pause—Wright's voice cracking.  The vampire had the vague feeling that he no longer existed in the room.  That the hunter had long ago consigned to speaking to the wall as soon as he would relate so openly to his enemy.  Then again, perhaps he hadn't measured the man as well as he thought he had.  The night had only introduced them.  Tied their paths with a common objective for a reason.  Something that remained yet to be seen, even if the root screamed its obviousness.  There was always something beyond the obvious.  

"Of everything I've forgotten, there are two things that I can't make go away.  The smell.  I'd gotten a whiff of blood before, but never like that.  So thick.  So…_everywhere.  _It was everywhere.  Practically running down the walls."  At that, Zack lurched forward as if to vomit, and instinctually, Spike grasped his forearm in wordless offer of support.  He froze when he realized what he had done before bidding his lingering reservation away.  If he wasn't buggered before this, he certainly was, now.  The hunter's voice clouded with tears; his face glistening with the taste of unburdened sin.  Releasing that weight into a world that didn't want it.  And for all the vampire had seen, all he had done, it took seeing that to understand the tools of his own trade.  

"And she…she was…Oh God…" Wright drew an arm across his eyes as his body trembled.  "She was…hanging.  She had…she had been nailed…that monstrous bitch had nailed her to the wall.  To look like Jesus, I guess.  Just there…waiting for me. Her arms…she…and her stomach.  Her sweet stomach…she…" He held up a hand, shielding his face and shaking his head.  "Darla had taken a…I don't even know what she used…but she had carved my Amber's stomach open…to kill my child.  My son.  She…s-sh-she put him in the bassinette we had from Ro…from earlier…and suffocated him."

Spike was stunned.  There was no other word for it.  Of everything he had ever heard, of everything he knew of Darla, he had never known her to do something so atrocious.  So callous.  She was a creature who relished the kill more than any he had encountered before.  Any save one.  His own grandsire.

Point of fact…

"Angelus," he murmured.  "It was Angelus."

"No, it most definitely was _not _Angelus," Zack snapped, wiping his eyes irately.  "She had transcribed 'with love' on the wall next to my…my son.  In blood.  It wasn't—"

"That's not what I meant.  She was recreatin' somethin' Angelus did back in the day."  He shook his head.  "I wasn' around for it—bit before my time—but I remember them laughin' about it.  Reminiscin' an' the like.  Guess after a bloody century of bein' without her boy, she began to lose it.  When was this?"

Wright closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.  "Like I said, seven years ago."

"Be right before she came to SunnyD, then."

"Where she was supposed to have been killed."

"She was."  Spike's brows flickered.  "Jus' not well.  Peaches staked her to save the Slayer, way I hear it.  That sentiment din't last long. An' _God, _does that prat ever go on?  Aside from him shaggin' Dru, I don' think I heard more garbage than his woes about slayin' his sire." He caught himself before his digression got too carried away, cleared his throat, and retuned himself to the present.  "So 'm guessin' after…you became a lean, mean, demon-huntin' machine?"

"It wasn't just demons," Wright said coldly.  "It was vampires.  I wanted Darla dead.  I wanted all vampires dead.  There were a thousand leads to follow…most of them stayed within the family.  I contacted an old friend from high school who came from a military household.  He taught me things I'd…he taught me things that I'd never have even dreamt of knowing.  I practiced.  I killed.  I've killed so many vampires I've lost count, but it was never enough.  It was never her.  I read so many books that my eyes started to bleed.  Memorized every single detail about her.  Her past.  Her associates.  Those she'd sired.  Those most noted in her Order.  Angelus.  Drusilla.  You.  Some random vampire named Penn, who I lost track of—"

"One of Angel's," Spike confirmed.  "Think he kicked it."

"—and then word came that she was dead.  She was dead, I hadn't killed her, but that was enough.  It was more than enough for me.  But by that time, I was too far into what I was doing to stop.  It had only been months, and I had lost myself.  Never staying in the same place.  Always following some lead.  Then I met Wes.  Nice enough guy, but didn't understand the meaning of the word 'rogue.'"  A shadow of a grin, in spite of himself.  "He told me who he was and that he was more acquainted with otherworldly phenomena than he cared to disclose.  I helped him a bit, I guess.  He came on a couple kills with me before he proved to be a liability."  He turned to the vampire with a longwinded sigh.  "Then Darla was alive again.  Back.  That was…when I heard; I was out the door.  There were no questions asked.  I had to get to where she was.  Had to kill her.  It was…God, it was as though…"

Spike nodded, capped.  "I get it, mate."

Wright snickered and turned to him, eyes wide with incredulity.  "Do you?  Do you really?  How could you?  You're just like them, right?  A fucking vampire who'd just as soon—"

"Look, as much as it might pain me to admit, I was never anywhere to the degree of nasty that Darla an' Angelus strove for.  All right?  'F you've read up on me, you'd know it."  The vampire chuckled humorlessly and shook his head.  "I get why you're here.  I…what she did…I guess I'll never understand it completely.  I can't.  I don' have the wirin' for it.  But that kind of…as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to her."  He scoffed.  "Never did care for the old bat, anyway."

Zack smiled without feeling.  "You make her sound like an unkempt relative."

"From where I'm sittin', she is."  Spike rose to his feet at that, as some sort of deranged pun, and made for the door without acknowledgement.  He paused before he could leave the room completely, turning to glance at the man who remained ambiguous.  Still not friends.  They would never be that.  But something more than just associates.  People with a common enemy.  People fighting a fight for the same purpose.  A reason for being.  "I'm not makin' light," he said seriously.  "Not a one of 'em.  I loved Dru.  Loved her for a long time.  But that won' stop me from killin' her 'f she stands between me an' the Slayer.  It'll hurt like hell, but 'f that's what it takes, I'm up to it.  What's worse, she knows it.  The lot of 'em do.  Guess that's why you're here, then, mate.  The bloody Powers needed someone who had a cause worth dyin' for."

"I have a cause," Wright said without turning, voice soft.  "Guess you do, too."

"Bloody right, I do."

There was a moment's pause followed by a sigh of concession.  The man's head dropped.  "Your girl," he said.  "She's worth this?  To you?"

The question was getting unspeakably redundant, but Spike figured the reassurance was needed amongst enemies.  He knew he would be doing the same if the tables were turned.  "She's worth everything.  An' not jus' to me.  She's not for me.  She's for the world."  He stopped and cocked his head curiously.  "Wasn' yours?"

A long, unwavering beat at that.  "Then," he said quietly,  "we'll get her back."

Spike smiled.  Perhaps he had been wrong.  After all, as was becoming the motto for this town, stranger things had happened.  "You know what, Zangy?" he asked rhetorically.  "I think this is the beginnin' of a beautiful—"

"Shut up."

Or maybe not.  Better not to push it.

"Right then," he agreed, grasping the handle of the door to pull it shut.  "G'night."

A room sealed with a defiant click.  Something else encompassed with so much more.  The vampire didn't know what to make of it.  If he should regard the new with a smile and a nod, or resent it with every fiber of his being.

Somewhere, it had stopped mattering.  And in the midst of all, he still hadn't decided which fate was worse.

To be continued in Chapter Sixteen: _Tourniquet_… 


	17. Tourniquet

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Tourniquet**

Lindsey McDonald didn't even bother to glance up when the door opened.  He had known it was only a matter of time before a spokesperson for the unholy trio decided to break the silence that had settled since the Slayer was brought into the picture.  As it was, he had been looking to call Angelus into his office for some time now.  There were things to discuss, pleasantries and their mutual uglies to get out of the way.  

And a meeting to arrange.

"Well, well," a familiar and overly unwanted voice drawled in greeting. "Alone at last."

The lawyer snickered but maintained his focus on his work.  "Hello, Angelus."

There would be no pleasant exchange.  They hadn't bothered with such tomfoolery when the vampire harbored a soul; there was absolutely no reason to now.  "You know, I just can't seem to figure out why… Now, before I get ahead of myself, don't get me wrong.  This new and improved status of being is really working out for me.  Granted I have a lot to catch up on, and the helpless pups over at my respected offices aren't really helping me out in that department."

Lindsey sighed and finally presented the vampire with his eyes, consigning his pen to his desk with raw agitation.  "You've only been here two seconds, and I'm already tired of listening.  Is there a reason that you're here and interrupting my very important and highly entertaining tax filing?" he asked monotonously, cocking his head.

A rich chuckle colored the air.  Angelus leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desk with open palms.  "All that hostility, and you still maintain your sense of humor.  Maybe I underestimated you, Lindsey.  You aren't quite the sniveling crybaby I had always pictured.  Close, don't get me wrong, but I don't like to shortchange those I'll likely be killing within the next five minutes with any doubts of their skills, however transparent they seem to be."

Even at that, McDonald refused to bat an eye.  The past few days had served as ample enough evidence that when it came down to chatting with associates, Angelus was about as much talk as he was action.  That wasn't to say the vampire didn't have aspirations of following through; his torture sessions with Buffy had been split between words and lashes.  Oh no.  This was a creature that enjoyed the buildup.  The suspense.  The endless wonder if today would be the day he ended his taunts with an effective snap.  "Is there a point you would like to make?" he asked.  "Or should I have you escorted out by force?  I _do _have work to do, if you don't mind."

"Ah, right to the point.  I always liked that about you, Lindsey.  So direct.  Forceful.  You simply reek of testosterone.  All that lovely man-juice that will never get you anywhere.  At least anywhere you actually want to get." Angelus glanced down speculatively, running his hand across the length of the desk before finding what he was looking for.  A pen.  A small instrument of minimal value.  Something that had to be more fascinating than it looked.  He ran his forefinger over the ballpoint, tossing a brief look upward as a smile curled his lips.  "You're really not afraid of me…are you?"

McDonald's brows perked, and he gestured dismissively.  "Should I be?"

"I could kill you with this, you know.  Your head would hit the floor before you could think to call for help."

"I don't doubt it," Lindsey returned honestly.  "But you didn't come up here to threaten me."

"Didn't I?" An incredulous snort tickled the air.  "You really think you matter to her?  That she lies awake, dreaming of you when the day is done?  That she touches herself, and calls out your name when she—"

"No need to be crude."  Perhaps it was his indifference that bothered; a look of irritation overwhelmed the vampire's face to a degree where, had he not been as valuable a player as he was, McDonald reckoned that might have been his last lucky break.  "Obviously not.  Why would you come up here and brag about that?  In fact, why would you come up here at all?  Don't you have a Slayer to be playing with?"

That remark stank of deception—coated in lies and buried somewhere that he hoped remained perpetually undiscovered.  The last thing Lindsey wanted to do was send Angelus back into the bowels of Wolfram and Hart to engage in another round of 'how much can a Slayer bleed.'  The monitors in the room he wasn't technically supposed to be in had long ago worn their reservation.  He couldn't stop watching—a morbid fascination.  For every flinch that crossed her face, for every tear that trenched her cheek, for every time she bit her lip to keep from screaming, he hated the vampire more.  

And it wasn't just that.  It could never be so simple.  Lindsey McDonald—the folly of his own repugnance.  His insides twisted with self-loathing that refused to grant him leave.  For as often as he watched her torment, he never made move to interfere.  To end it.  To get her out of there.  To save her and himself from this haven of sin.  He couldn't.  He remained.  He had to.  Wolfram and Hart was what he knew.  

It had only been two days.  Two days.  And she bled. She had bled too much.

And yet it was he who was dying.  

Irony was a horrendous pain in the ass.

"Funny that you should mention the Slayer," Angelus replied.  "You'll never believe what Dru shared with us over breakfast."

Lindsey froze and glanced up.

Oh. God.

If the vampires knew that their torture sessions were being videotaped, things were going to go from bad to worse in record time.

"I'm sure you'll tell me," he replied, attempting with desperation to maintain a cool, disinterested façade.   

"Seems Spike is in town.  In town, and looking for us.  Imagine that."  His eyes narrowed and he studied the man with intensity that could melt an iceberg.  Funny how a vampire could produce that sort of radiation.  With merely a look, a flinch, Angelus betrayed everything he was.  And he enjoyed every minute of it.  "I'm thinking, you knew about this, didn't you?"

Lindsey didn't know what merited the most reaction.  The notion that his late night rendezvous to the security room had yet to be discovered, or that the vampire would display such interest in one of his own, especially one noted on the 'likely to try something stupid' list.  "Our resources aren't really focused on new arrivals," he replied steadily.  "But yes, I was informed.  By Spike himself, actually.  He claims to have rethought Darla's offer.  He wants in."

Angelus drew back and stared at the man blankly before emitting a long, incredulous chuckle.  "Perfect!" he decided richly.  "How absolutely perfect.  It never ceases to amaze me how centuries can change, but the people remain…" He paused, cocking his head for emphasis.  "Irrevocably the same.  Spike, one of my own.  Same guy.  Same mindless enthusiasm.  Different cause."

"I think it runs in the family, myself."  McDonald wisely avoided the vampire's eyes at that, glancing once more to his work.  "Anyway, I told him the Slayer was dead.  He didn't seem to care."  

He quirked a brow.  "Interesting.  I never thought he'd be inventive enough to go with apathy."

Lindsey leaned back in his chair.  "You're so sure it's a rouse?"

"Of course it's a rouse, Bright Boy.  Spike always reeked of way too much humanity to give up that quickly.  And man—that kid becomes obsessed with something, he stays that way."  Angelus rolled his eyes and gestured emphatically.  "On and on and on until I wished I had never even _mentioned _the Slayer.  It was almost worth getting souled to not hear another _word _of his mindless, endless rambling."

"He wants to meet you tomorrow at Caritas.  At sunset."

The vampire's eyes widened in consideration.  "Interesting choice."

"Not nearly as interesting as what our tracers picked up."  Lindsey leered forward and retrieved a single-sheeted document from his desk.  "The phone he used was issued to a Wright, Zachary Stephens.  Anyone you know?"

"Name doesn't sound familiar."  Angelus frowned speculatively.  While improbable, the notion that Spike had suffered a drastic change of heart was not too outrageous to be marked as the truth.  Were he to be on some Slayer-saving tangent, chances lay in the better wake of his contacting associates at Angel Investigations.  Both men knew that.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Spike knew that as well.  Possible, but unlikely.  Despite the very sad esteem that merited his reputation preceding him, the younger vampire was not known for his forethought.  It was vexing.  All very vexing. 

"Well," Angelus decided with definitive finale.  "I guess there's never any harm in looking, now is there?  Caritas at sunset…well, I suppose we'll just have to wait until then."  He turned to flash McDonald a cheeky grin that practically dripped with disdain before bidding a very insincere farewell and waltzing out of the office to his leisure.  

For everything the vampire formerly kept to himself to everything he now practically shouted from the rooftops.  Lindsey never thought the day would arrive when he would miss the shadow of his former rival.  Every minute mounted more surprises.

He did not want William the Bloody in these offices, especially if he had spoken the truth earlier.  Vampires were fickle creatures—and despite whatever sense of romance the little Cockney might have felt prior to the turn of the tide, that did not deduct from the very well noted fact that he was a Slayer killer.  He prided himself in it.  Had already done two in and—by the files—had spent the past three years of his life skirting around the ways to kill the one currently in the firm's darkest nook.

Drusilla thought that he was in love with Buffy.  Hah.  Rich.  That was all very well for Drusilla.  Lindsey much preferred to keep his opinion based on factual evidence, not the sporadic claims of a rambling undead lunatic.  He did not know what Spike was trying to pull, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be on his side of the rope to drag the Slayer further into her shame.

Angelus's hostility toward Buffy was founded but aged.  Too much time had passed and he was currently hell-bent on revisiting the causes of yesterday.  When he tired of her, it was going to take every string in McDonald's command to keep the girl from reaching a messy end.  Spike was a different story.  His hostility had had time to brew.  To bubble and fester.  All scars were fresh and likely still bleeding; he wasn't going to have the satisfaction of repaying that regard.

Not if Lindsey could stop it.

He had to get her out of there.  Before things got worse.  Before William the Bloody was implicated.

It was merely a question of how.

*~*~*

This time, she knew she was dreaming.

He stood in the doorway, shadowed by his own darkness.  The figurative silhouette marking his undoing.  His features remained blurred, either for the lack of convenient luminosity or the mask of tears that had long since dried and crusted under her eyes.  She didn't know.  Had long since stopped caring.  How much time had passed?  Days?  Weeks?  Years?  

Days.  It was only days.  Two or three at best.  Likely three.  Three sounded good.  A sturdy, wholesome, reliable number.  Three days since she saw him.  Since he burst into the Bronze after his premature leave.  Since he looked at her with such genuine regard to warn her of this.  Of what it was.  What was to come.

To warn her of Drusilla and Darla.  What they had planned for her.

To warn her of Angelus.

And before that?  A walk through Restfield cemetery.  Cordial.  Nice.  Side-by-side, as though they had been doing it for years.  As though witty banter and the occasional personal remark resembled a hug or a smooch on the cheek.  As though it were a labeled brand of affection.

She had opened up to him that night.  She had gone against her own established rule.  She had prefaced herself and opened up, and Spike, never one to shy from a challenge, had admirably stepped up to the plate.

_Everyone is wrong,_ he had told her.  And he had been sincere.

_You're an ambiguity, Buffy.  _

And now he was here, and she was dreaming.  She had to be dreaming.  Nothing was clear enough to merit reality.  Trapped in a daze where what she wanted was so close within hindsight, even if the same couldn't be Spike.  Couldn't.  Never had been, never would be.  

What she wouldn't do to see his face now.  His face.  Xander's face.  Willow's face.  Hell, right now, even Parker's face.  Someone to remind her that the world existed outside these three-dimensional walls.  That she wasn't in Hell, repaying for some sin she didn't know she had committed.  That life in all its blessed routine, complete with demonic Hellgods who wanted to use her sister as some sort of turnkey, was still the basis of reality outside her suffering.

But that wasn't entirely true, was it?  Because if Spike _were _here, it certainly wouldn't be for her.  He was a vampire after all.  He was a very notorious, very dangerous vampire with two Slayer deaths under his belt.  And he had been jonesing to kill her since he first blew into Sunnydale three years prior.

Funny, though, how the thought of him right now—in this distorted version of her even more distorted reality—brought with it some sort of peace.

Flash.  He was standing there before her, now.  The open sea of his eyes welcoming her own.  Imploring her with depths that could find her even if they had to swim through the inner maze of her psyche.  Despite everything, their differences, their banter, their mutual hatred, he somehow managed to know her better than anyone she had encountered.  Better than even Willow at times, and that was scary.  Vampires weren't supposed to divulge their enemies so thoroughly.  It displayed a nature of wanting left to be uncovered by an unnamed source.  He knew her.  Oh, he knew her.  He always had.

He knew Slayers, he had said.  That was true.  But he knew Buffy better than any of the others.  He knew _Buffy.  _

When he spoke, his breath fanned her lips—her chapped, raw, sore lips.  There wasn't a part of her that wasn't screaming in some form of agony.  That hadn't been explored and taunted for all its painful possibilities.  Angelus was a connoisseur of such things, and by the way he touched her, he never wanted her to forget it.

_"What's this?" _the Spike-apparition demanded.  _"My girl all chained up?  Tsk.  That won' do, now will it?"_

Buffy lunged forward at that—or rather, tried to.  Her bindings held steadfast, pulling on skin that had long ago outstretched its limits.  Her muscles were sore and abused, tired from struggling against an unrelenting chain.  Tired of holding her up while the others made their play.  Simply _tired.  _She was grateful for the lack of mirrors; feeling the grime and blood caked upon dirtied flesh was enough.  The last thing she needed was a diagram.

The chains would withhold anything; even and especially images conjured simply because she wished it so.  The Slayer withdrew after a few seconds, emanating a pitiful wail as she limped in defeat.  "Spike…" she whimpered imploringly.  "Please…"

_"Things are gonna get rough.  You're gonna have to sit tight.  Close your eyes.  Pretend 's not real.  An' wait.  Jus' wait.  I'll make it all go away."  _He reached out to caress her cheek and she was surprised when it didn't hurt.  When she didn't feel the need to flinch.  Rather, it was exquisite.  Being touched out of feeling rather than unsatisfied anger.  Rage.  Fury.  Everything that constructed Angelus into being.  _"Hold on for me, all right, luv?  Can you do that?  We're tryin'."_

"Spike," she moaned, biting back tears.  She had thought to having drained her body of tears, but somehow they kept coming.  Stinging her eyes with their intrusive salt.  Waiting to trek painful rivers down a face that could spare no more inward screams.  "Please, don't…Angelus…he's…"

_"I'll find you."  _He flashed a grin, then leaned forward softly and caressed her lips with his own.  It wasn't a passionate union.  It wasn't flavored with lust or unrequited fervor.  More gentle and reassuring.  And yet, somehow, she had never received a more ardent kiss.  And real.  Oh God.  It felt so real.  She could almost smell him.  Cigarettes, leather, whisky…tears?  Were those his tears she sensed, or her own?  Too soon it was over, and he pulled back, drawing locks of bloodied hair between his fingers with a look on his face that she had never seen before.  Never seen.  Couldn't place.  But she loved it.  _"I promise, Buffy.  I'll find you."_

She opened her eyes and allowed her tears to sting, but before she could call him back, beg him to stay; he had dissolved into the night behind him.

There was a slam and she jerked awake.

The fantasy was over.  Reality stepped forward with all its wretched glory.

This was it.  She was alone.

And Angelus had returned.

He flashed a smirk, consigning some foreign object to the ground beneath her feet.  Buffy refused to blink; refused to look at it.  Rather lifted her head with whatever kept her going and met his eyes.  Beat by beat.

And, as she had at every interval, refused to show him any fear.

"Hello, sweetheart," he greeted contemptuously, marking her brow with a forceful, bitingly cold crash of his lips.  "Miss me?" 

The warmth that had camped throughout her system left with the remnants of her lost redeemer.  Truth returned.  Nasty, spiteful, and real.

The same that could never be forgotten.  Wanting did not make it so.

This was her certainty.  Her stamina.  Her one true thing.  

She was alone.

To be continued in Chapter Seventeen: _With A Little Help_… 


	18. With A Little Help

**Chapter Seventeen**

**With A Little Help**

"Remind me again what we're doing here."

"I told you, Mr. Antsy-Pants," Cordelia answered, propping her bag onto her shoulder and fighting the locks of hair that insisted on blocking her view.  "There are a few things I'd like to pick up—and not that I'm all Angel-wiggy—but I figured it might be a little safer if I had someone to come with."

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes.  "What 'appened to me not bein' invited in?"

She grinned at him unpleasantly.  "Well, since you're so effectively neutered, it shouldn't matter.  Besides, as I said before, Dennis would _so kick your ass."  _

The door swung open at that without any hint of follow, and the vampire immediately found himself overwhelmed by a strong, unguided force that propelled him to the far other side of the veranda.  The few drops of sunlight that had yet to dispel into the shadows trickled to vulnerable skin, and he yelped loudly in turn.   

"Now that," Wright said as he approached from the car, rugged face adorned with a grin of secreted amusement, "was funny."

Spike scowled and fought to his feet.  "Ghostly types.  Always gotta have a bloody sense of humor."

Cordelia shrugged and held the door open for him.  "Well, they gotta pass the time somehow."  She gestured inward, the move broad and overly grandiose.  "William the Bloody, I hereby pardon every bad thing you've ever done, and cordially invite you into my home.  Consider yourself officially one of the gang."

The vampire smirked at her and moved inward hurriedly.  "Ha bloody ha, luv." He ran a hand through platinum strands and was grinning when she finally shut the door behind them.  "The day that you're picked to reign judgment on all us poor demons 's—"

"Hey, I don't see why you're complaining.  You're currently my favorite vamp.  Wanna keep it up?"

Wright rolled his eyes.  "Because the selection is _so _wide.  I guess if you wanted to go that way, he'd have to be _my favorite vamp, too."_

Spike knew better than to push it, but couldn't help himself.  It was a rare day when he did.  "Aw, shucks, Zangy," he drawled.  "I din't know you cared."   

"I don't.  That being the point, in case you missed it."

"And here I thought you boys were getting along," Cordelia said dismissively, tossing her bag to the nearest chair.  Then she lifted her head and called to no one in particular, "Phantom Dennis, meet Spike and Zack.  Spike's a vamp, Zack wants to kill him."

"Don't jump to conclusions," Wright said, holding up a hand.  "I only want to kill him if I get to the others first.  Right now, I'm just using him for his connections."

Spike snickered.  "'Course.  Right martyr you are."

"I do try."

"Could you two save it for when I'm not around?  Honestly."  Cordelia moved pristinely for her bedroom, glancing upward as though to catch the eye of her invisible roommate.  "They did this _all the way over here.  It's giving me a headache."_

"Well now," Spike snickered.  "Couldn't have that, could we?"

"Hey, a healthy Seer is a happy Seer.  Who knows?  It might make my mind-numbingly painful visions all the more jolly."

Zack smirked.  "Yes.  I'm sure the laws of nature would bend merely to accommodate you."

"Better watch it, mate," the vampire advised, though there was mischief in his eyes.  "She _was _the Queen C.  Near as I can recall, anyway."  His glance turned appraisingly to the apartment, narrowing his gaze at her very feminine surroundings.  There was absolutely no doubt that a lady lived here.  Even the greatest poof this side of the Atlantic wouldn't choose these themes if they had any self-respect.  Nevertheless, it was cozy.  Very serene.  Homey.  

One would never guess that its resident worked for a vampire.

"So," Cordelia said, emerging once more from her room with a small suitcase at her disposal.  She wisely ignored the blank stares her random, not to mention rapid brandishing of a home-away-from-home survival kit.  "What's the game plan?  Spike's heading over to Caritas here in about a half—"

"Spike and _Zack _are heading to this…whatever," the demon hunter corrected adamantly.  When he received a skeptical look in turn, his spread his arms, eyes widening with incredulity.  "What?  Darla might show.  You honestly think I'm gonna bypass a shot to—"

"Cordy, luv, do me a favor an' keep Zangy nice an' distracted for about three hours."  The vampire tossed an icy glare to his unlikely companion, speaking for everything the other man had not.  Then it was all business.  Amazing how the tone could change within a blink.  The proverbial snap.  Spike stepped intrusively into the hunter's personal space.  Like most men that were in the general acquaintance, Wright had several inches on him.  He was domineering, built, and perceptibly unaffected by anything that occurred around him.  A being of his own creation; schooled irrevocably that after all that he had seen and done, nothing would surprise him.  That, however, was not enough to coax the Cockney back.  Not when the waters they manned bordered the outskirts of rough.  "Whatever else 'appens tonight," he said seriously.  "'m not gonna let you sit by an' bugger up my chances to get Buffy safe an' sound.  Somethin' tells me that you stakin' Darla wouldn't be in followin' the proper protocol of fraternizin' with the enemy."  

"He wouldn't have to know it's me."

"The answer's no, Zangy."

Wright paused and glared.  "One, stop calling me that.  Two, how the hell do you propose to stop me?"

There were a thousand and a half ways of answering that; all of which seemed as obvious as they were effective.  He knew without consideration that none of the options that firstly came to mind would be attempted, but thought it better to leave them unvoiced anyway.  Despite the man's noted distaste for those of the undead variety, the past day had seemingly alleviated his standing.  Wright would likely never admit it if his vehemence breeched and mended, allowing a few amendments to break his own golden rule.  

The suspicious leers were becoming less.  They had bantered more than argued.

Up until this point.

"Look, mate," Spike said sensibly.  "'m on your bloody side here.  When—"

Wright scoffed at that, shaking his head in astonishment.  "On my side?" he repeated, arching a skeptic brow.  "You're just using me."

Cordelia waved a hand.  "Ummm…did I miss something, Mr. Hypocritical?  You _are _just using him too, right?  Look, I know I don't know you all that well, but I am a living, breathing person-shaped person here!  And I _do_ know Spike pretty well."  She frowned.  "Well, I knew the old Spike…and when I say _knew, _I mean as in 'ran from him as much as I could when I wasn't trying to keep him from torturing my boss'…but you get the—"

The vampire cleared his throat and arched his brows.  "Thanks ever so," he said gruffly, eyes glued to the ground.  "But I don' really reckon tha's gonna score me any points, pet."

"Well, I _was _getting to a point."  Her eyes widened and she made a mocking face at Wright, who chuckled in spite of himself.   "Anyway, before I was so _rudely _interrupted…Buffy told me about this one time when an old friend of hers came down from…well…here…Hemery High and made a deal with you that if he gave you the Slayer, you'd vamp him.  This ring any bells?"

The Cockney glanced down.  Oh, bells were being rung.  This wasn't the sort of story one told to a demon hunter.  Especially if one was in the process of winning the trust of said demon hunter.  "Ummm, pet, s'all right.  You don' have to—"

"No.  I'm just trying to make a point." Cordelia pivoted to Wright, whose brows were peaked with interest.  "Anyway, this guy totally blows it, obviously.  Spikey here couldn't kill the Slayer if—"

"Oi!"

"Well…"

"I don't _want _to kill the Slayer, princess.  Slightly different scenario."

She gave him a skeptical glance.  "Are we forgetting the chip?"

Spike scoffed.  "No.  Of bloody course not.  How could we?"

"Ahem." Zack waved a little to direct their attention back into focus.  "I believe there was a story…"

"Right." Cordelia nodded and, very unfortunately, picked up right where she left off.  "Anyway, the guy totally delivers but Spike screws it up—" She held up a hand and plowed through whatever interruption curled off the peroxide Cockney's lips, voice elevated to volumes that were likely on the brink of attracting dogs.  "—and even though it would've been just as easy for him to say no to the entire 'sire' thing, he vamps him anyway.  Kept his word."  She paused with a frown.  "I don't really see why it did any good, anyway.  Way I hear it, the kid bit the dust the next night."

Spike smirked poignantly.  "Gotta hand it to her.  My Slayer knows me well."

Wright snickered.  "Aww, how heartwarming."  He tossed a sideways glance to the vampire, expression nearly imperceptible all except the shadow of what could be construed as a grin tickling his lips.  "See?  That story had a happy ending and everything."

"My point was, Spike'll keep his promise.  Darla's gonna be dust either way."  At that, the brunette earned a sharp, nearly surprised look from her vampiric cohort, one that stung with both gratitude and conviction.  "Even if he promises something particularly grizzly."

"After the Slayer's outta harm's way," the peroxide blonde agreed, nodding adamantly.  "I don' give a bloody damn what you do to my unfortunate blood ties.  Torch the place.  See what I care.  I jus' want her out."  A heavy pause settled for a minute.  Despite however annoyed he was, Spike could certainly appreciate Wright's need for vengeance.  A quick, swift, definitive end to something that had destroyed every purity his life had ever known.  More over, he would be sure he received it, after all was said and done—even and especially if he assisted where assistance was needed.  "Jus' work with me on this.  Work with me…an' I'll work with you."

There was a long beat of silence—a wordless beg to reason.  Further and further they treaded, crossing as many boundaries as possible within reason.  This time yesterday, Wright would have answered a resounding no, hands down.  Amazing how altered perception could affect one's tolerance.  Finally, he broke and nodded, glancing downward.  "All right," he agreed, refusing to meet the vampire's gaze.  "All right.  For…her."

Spike smiled—a real smile.  Genuine and without snark.  "Thanks, mate."

"I'm putting a lot on faith, here.  I've never even met this chick."

"She's worth it."

"So you keep saying."

The vampire grinned and placed a hand over his nonbeating heart.  "Would I lie?"

Cordelia's brows arched.  "Uhhh, yeah," she said skeptically.  "I just vouched for your reliability, not your honesty.  Stay where you're better acquainted."  

The look he shot her was colored and mostly falsified, but one could not discount the way the corners of his mouth lifted into the barest hint of a grin.  "So you're tellin' me that you don' think she's worth it?"

The young woman smirked.  "Oh, heaven forbid!  Any Slayer who can get two of the most badass vamps crawling on their knees within a stone's throw of each other _has _to be worth something."  

"Now, there's all the reason you needed to give me," Wright complied, grinning madly.  "Remind me that I'm doing this to save the girl that effectively got William the Bloody whipped.  Any dame like that's one I'm hankering to meet."

At that, Spike's gaze darkened.  "I am not—"

For not the first time, Cordelia met Zack's gaze, nodded, and they bombarded him with a collective, "Yes you are."

"I—"

"You're not fooling anyone," the young woman told him, shaking her head and jingling her keys with the unspoken implication that everyone should head for the door.  "Didn't we clarify this just last night?"

"Besides," Wright added, "you've told me several times that you're not expecting anything from her in return.  If that's not _whipped, _I don't—"

"Sod off."

"Oh no, buddy.  What was it you said?  If it annoys, it stays."

"So you're takin' to quotin' a vamp now?"

He shrugged.  "As long as it's a whipped vamp, I'm cool with it."

Spike scowled and stalked forward, only without the intensity he was striving for.  At some point, the line had faded to a lesser-recognizable form of tangibility and settled at the point of no return.  He was getting that buggering annoying feeling that this bloke was one he could learn to not-hate, despite the man's noted abhorrence for all of his kind.   

Instead of continuing with another string of useless slander that would ultimately get them nowhere, the vampire conceded with a shrug and allowed his façade to drop, gesturing to the door.  "All right then," he said, his casual lenience indicating in hidden layers that this trade was nowhere near over.  They would likely be arguing the point until the trials were over and everyone was on their way home.  "I better be off.  Wouldn't wanna keep the Great Poof waitin'."

Zack's brows perked and he made to follow.  "So, to Caritas then?"

"Thought I told you that you weren' comin'."

"Funny.  I could've sworn that…well, you can't stop me."

Spike paused intently and his eyes narrowed, fists clenching as though searching for control.  "Zangy…"

There was an amused chuckle.  Cordelia cast her gaze upward in random speculation of her hovering Phantom-Dennis and muttered, "Lover's quarrel."

"I promised I wouldn't try to kill Darla," Wright clarified, opening the door with a cocky grin.  "But a chance to meet the legendary Angelus?  Who could say no?"

"Bloody…an' 'f Darla shows?"

The other man shrugged.  "Well, I'm assuming this place is sizey.  Getting lost won't present much of a problem.  Besides…" It was small, nearly imperceptible, but one would swear that his eyes alighted with a hint of uncovered disobedience.  The light of whom he had once been, perhaps.  When circumstances were different.  Someone who sought trouble as a means of entertainment, if nothing else.  "I do this for a living."

He was gone the next minute; sprinting out the door with shades of jollity that almost looked alien on his figure.

Spike sighed and cast his gaze heavenwards.  "That boy 's gonna be the death of me."

"Awww, I don't think so," Cordelia replied, thrusting her bags into the vampire's hands without awaiting invitation.  "He's all talk, if you ask me."

"I was speakin' figuratively, you know."

"Oh, I know.  But even still…" She nudged her head to the door with wordless consent that he should follow. "One measly demon hunter take down William the Bloody?  Puhlease.  Even if said demon hunter does have a very, _very _nice physique.  Not to mention abs and a six-pack and…oh, and all that upper-body—"

Spike cleared his throat.  Loudly.

To her credit, the young woman didn't miss a beat.  She turned back to him quickly and flashed a bright smile that nearly coincided with the sequential roll of her eyes.  "Oh, stop.  You know you're gorgeous."

He grinned.  "Naturally."

"Is he seeing anyone?  You know?"

At that, the grin faded.  Amazing how quickly one could develop a streak of immediate empathy.  He didn't even have to fake that one.  "Prolly best to avoid bringin' it up," he advised.  "'E jus' got over a bad break."

"Oh."  The disappointment on her face was manifest, and nearly coaxed him to laugh again.  Then she flashed her eyes upward, discontent vanished, and granted him a coy smirk.  "You know I'm only asking about him because I know you're off the market, right?"

"Of course."

"Besides, all that muscle has nothing against vamp strength.  You could totally kick his ass."

It was odd the way his head hurt to even think of raising a hand against a human in anger.  Was that the chip or the conscience-he-didn't-want?  At some point, one must concede that caring got them nowhere.  "Not that I don' appreciate the sentiment, pet, but—"

"I meant in a fair fight, dummy.  Who are you more afraid of?  Zachary Wright or Joyce Summers with an axe?"

He couldn't help it; he chuckled.  "Neither," he replied honestly.  "But 'f I had to choose…"

"My point exactly.  Now chop chop!" She clapped her hands loudly, ushering him out the door.  "You don't wanna be late for your date with Angel, do you?"

Spike scowled irately.  "You know, luv," he said.  "'F I din't like you so much—"

"I know.  Just call it charismatic charm."  Cordelia grinned and strolled intently for the car where Zack had, again, assumed the passenger seat.  "Be a dear and put the bags in the back.  And are you coming or not?"

A long pause and he stood at the curb, safely incased in shadows even if the sun couldn't touch him now.  The sight of a new epiphany.  Amazing.  Only days had passed, and he already knew more acceptance and solidarity amongst these people than he had ever been granted in Sunnydale.  The opening doors to compassion.

Perhaps that was the change.  The influx of a conscience he did not want to coincide with the support he thought he would never have.

"Right then," he said, bouncing Cordelia's suitcase a bit, having nearly forgotten he was holding it.  "To the belly of the bloody beast.  Hope the wanker's hungry."

It was time then.  Time to get the Slayer back.  

Starting with a meeting.  

Assuming he dealt his cards right, the Great Poof would never see him coming.  It was risqué and more than flawed, but Spike had a natural hand at cards.  

Even if he was known to keep the better plays up his sleeve.

**To be continued in Chapter Eighteen: _Back Door Man_…**


	19. Back Door Man

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Back Door Man**

"What?"

"Whaddya mean, 'what'?"

"I mean, 'what'?  What's wrong with it?"

"You mean other than this side of _everythin'?  _Bloody hell, an' I thought you were s'posed to be the professional 'ere."

"I am!"

"An' tha's the best you can do?" Spike puckered an eyebrow and consigned a thoroughly smoked cigarette to the pavement as the two neared Caritas.  From the outside, it looked to be a thoroughly busy night, and he wasn't for certain if that scored a mark in the good or bad column.  All would be revealed in due time.

Right now, though, there were more pressing matters.

For starters, a certain demon hunter who was in way over his head.

"I don't see what you're griping about.  It seems more than—"

"Peaches isn't some run of the mill vamp, Zangy.  'E isn't liable to fall for the same old that might've scratched your tally up from mediocre-wanker to above average."  The peroxide Cockney shook his head heavily, a low, humorless chuckle rumbling from the back of his throat.  "'S gonna take more than that to chafe his willy.  The stupid git won' 'ave an ear for believin' me as it is."

"Fine.  You handle the 'more' and I'll focus on the 'that.'  Seems reasonable."  He paused thoughtfully.  "And _plausible, _if you ask me—"

"I did ask you.  Remember?  The entire reason we're 'avin' this bloody conversation?"  

"Well, from what your friends have told me about this Host guy, I think he'd go for it."  Wright regarded him appraisingly.  "Doesn't seem like he's rallying for the position as Angelus's number one fan, either.  I think as long as we make it look coincidental—"

Spike laughed again.  "Tha's jus' it, Zangy.  Great-Daddy Poofter doesn' believe in _coincidences._  Jus' like the Slayer in that, much as I hate to admit it.  'F anythin', it'll look bloody timely."

Actually, if he was completely honest dispelling the namesake of pride, it sounded like the best idea that either one of them could come up with.  Not to mention the only thing that could pass as credible, even if it did risk more than he cared to risk.  There was no better plan, thus he went with what he was granted.  But, as always, the peroxide blonde was a capitalist.  He needed to milk this one for everything he had.

And, as usual, it didn't take as long as he originally wagered.

"Look…" Wright sighed and combed a hand through his hair.  "I'm good at this.  I am.  And I know it can work.  How about…we do the plan, and to call it even, I'll buy the first round of drinks?"

The vampire paused speculatively at that, doing his damndest to shadow a grin.  The bloke better start watching his step—he was going to end up Spike's personal version of Xander Harris.  "Right mate," he said genially, thumping him once on the back for good measure.  "'m convinced.  You got yourself a deal."

"I walked right into that, didn't I?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The fact that I walked right into it."

The Cockney grinned.  "My, my.  Can't put anythin' passed you hunter types."  He held up a hand before Zack could retort, nodding at a break in the sidewalk that led to an underground establishment.  "Oh, looky.  We're here."

"Has Angelus arrived yet?  Can you tell?"

The vampire rolled his eyes.  "'S not like sensin' him through the bloody Force, Obi Wan.  An' yeh, while the wanker does 'ave an intrusively familiar scent, there's about seventy five lurkin' down there alone to compete with it."

Zack feigned astonishment.  "You mean the great William the Bloody can't even sense when his own grandsire is near?"

"What is it with you prats an' usin' my full name?"

The man shrugged.  "It's just fun to say.  Of all the vamps I've known…and by 'known' I mean 'killed'…there's never been one that's dependent on two nicknames.  If I were you, I'd stick to the first.  It has character." When all he earned was a frown in turn, he gestured emphatically to support his claim.  "Come on!  There's 'William the Bloody'…or…" His voice dropped monotonously, performing a very impromptu and frighteningly accurate impersonation of Ben Stein.  "'Spike.'"

"Are you suggestin' that Spike doesn' have character?"

"It sounds like a name that belongs to an overweight biker with way too many tattoos for his own good."  Zack paused thoughtfully.  "And as far as suggesting?  No.  I'm flat out _telling _you that it lacks in the character department."

"The wankers I impaled seemed to 'ave a different opinion."

"Well, by all means, feel free to persuade me."  Wright stopped with a condescending grin.  "Of course, you'd get a headache, and then I'd have to kill you for trying."

"You're jus' lookin' for an excuse to kill me."

The other man stopped and graced him with a look that positively screamed, _'Gasp!  You're kidding!'_

Spike smirked.  "Well, keep lookin'.  'Aven't you heard?  I'm a soddin' white hat now, jus' like the rest of you.  Cordy cleansed me of all my wrong when she invited me in, din't she?"

Wright snickered.  "You make her sound like the Pope."

"Well, no.  I wouldn't give her that much power right off.  'Sides, my family wasn' Catholic."  

"Then you can't be all that bad," Zack replied with a grin as they prodded down the outer stairwell and stepped into the atmosphere that was unbeatably Caritas.  

It was weird; seeing that face grin with some measure of sincerity.  Spike hadn't known the bloke for long, but enough time had passed that he could tell the man was one with little or no humor in his life.  Somewhere along the way, an invisible line had been crossed.  They were sinking further into this than either one would care to admit.  "Besides," the hunter continued, voice elevated to be heard over the noise.  "I don't think anyone could ever consider you a white hat."

"Thank the bloody maker.  I'd have to stake myself."

At that, Zack paused pensively.  "Well, now that you mention it…"

"Ha bloody ha."  That wasn't it; it never was, but Spike's attention was nearly visibly swiped away.  Firstly by the music perturbing the air; secondly by the sight that greeted him on stage.

Lorne was singing again.

He was singing Barry Manilow.

Someone needed to be shot.

_"Her name was Lo-la,"_ the Host vocalized beautifully.  _"She was a showgirl.  But that was thirty years ago, when they used to have a show.  Now it's a disco…but not for Lo-la.  Still in that dress she used to wear, faded feathers in her hair.  She sits here so re-fined.  And drinks herself half blind.  She lost her youth, and she lost her Tony, now she's—" _He stopped and randomly directed the microphone to his very attentive audience, who screamed back, _"Lost. Her. Mind!"_

Zack was staring at the stage with a look of mixed wonder and fear on his face.  "What the hell is this?"

"Apparently, 's the hottest spot north of Havana." 

A long pause.

_"Why_ is it the hottest spot north of Havana?"

"I don't know."

Wright's brows quirked and he shook his head.  "Well," he decided with a note of defeat.  "I guess that if no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, then no one can expect _that _either."

Spike's eyes widened and a smile tickled his lips, unbidden.  And before he could stop himself, he had plunged headfirst into a recitation that he had memorized without realizing it.  "Our chief weapon is surprise," he said.  "…fear an' surprise."

"Two chief weapons," Zack continued.  "Fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency!"

The vampire was grinning broadly now.  He couldn't help it.  "Er, among our chief weapons are fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, and near fanatical devotion to the Pope!"

It was tempting to continue, but Wright's eyes alighted with inspiration.  "Is that so?" he asked.  "I thought you weren't Catholic."

"Oh, sod off."  Spike nodded to the stage where Lorne had spotted them, ending his highly annoying number, thanking everyone and announcing that the next routine would be performed by a Fungus demon from the Caribbean.  He hopped down and immediately wormed his way through the crowd.

"This bloke," the vampire continued, pivoting to Wright, "'s the Host.  'E's the git that told me to find you."

"Spikalicious!" Lorne returned in greeting.  "So good to see you, too."  He turned to Zack with a cordial smile.  "And you must be the demon hunter."

The man smiled self-consciously.  "Hi."

"Yeh, mate…" Spike shifted forward intently.  "We gotta problem."

"More like a proposition," Zack corrected.

"Peaches 's gonna show at any minute—"

"—and we need him to buy that Spike's more a bloodsucking fiend than he emanates—"

The vampire glared.

Zack smiled condescendingly.

Lorne blinked.  "Huh?  You invited Angel here?"  Without awaiting a reply, he cast his gaze upward and heaved a sigh.  "Leaping Lazaruses with a pogo stick.  There goes another bartender."

"We needed somewhere neutral," Spike explained with a shrug.

"Yeah.  Thanks for the nod, boys.  Glad to know I'm in your thoughts."  The Host neared and lowered his voice; it was obvious he wanted to shout, but there was no point in riling the other customers.  Yet.  "I can't have Angelkins in here harassing my customers!  You have any idea how bad for business that is?  It took a week to get back to the normal quote, and that was _with _the sanctuary spell!"

"Would you do it for a girl?"

Zack arched a brow.  "Does he look like you to…you?  He doesn't go all gooey whenever someone mentions—"

The Host rolled his eyes and plowed through his companion's objection.  "Oh, fine.  Throw a Slayer in the deal.  Twist my arm.  Want my liver while you're at it?"  He shook his head in relevance that there were no true harsh feelings.  "Yeah, fine."

Spike beamed and smirked at Wright.

Lorne sighed.  "What do you need me to do?"

*~*~*

The plan, however effective, remained hopelessly rudimentary in technique.  A passing glance in the spirit that whatever they were trying to emanate would succeed on all levels.  The Host was seated at the pub, chatting up his current barkeep while nursing a phony headache.  Spike, meanwhile, had perched himself on a stool surrounded by female demons of every breeding and variety, and looked to be having a ball.

Hard to believe it was a façade.

Zack was by the door, watching with awe and wondering where a dead guy got the energy.  To his credit, he didn't seem to be authentically interested in any of the lame come-ons that were being waved in his face, despite the amount of cleavage that managed to worm into the picture.  There weren't many creatures—human or not—that he wagered would be so thoroughly wholesome; especially to a girl that did not reciprocate his feelings.

Wright snickered at that.  Wholesome.  A wholesome vampire.  No such fucking thing.

Not much time had passed; it seemed it, but he had only known Spike for a day or so.  A day.  Somehow he had gone from wielding a crossbow with every intention of firing to nearly treating a demon as an equal.  There was something seriously fucked up with the world.

Trouble was, Spike didn't act like a conventional vampire.  Monsters were difficult to hate when they didn't behave by society's standards.  Well, at least he reckoned.  Before the monster in question, he had never encountered one that refused to conform to its innate nature.  

The past few years had been set to a regular schedule.  Get up, eat, dress, kill local nasties.  That was the way it was.  With every demon he slayed, he got that much of his own back.  Such to the point where he reckoned he was taking from other's plates as well.  And why shouldn't he?  The world had robbed him of so much.  In its sadistic temperament, it had given everything he ever asked for.  Ever wanted.  Ever needed.  Gave it to him and let him enjoy it before ripping it away without permission.

He rued the day he let Darla into his life, even if he could not remember it.  She had set the bar.  She was the equation to which all others of her kind were measured.  And he had never stopped in the past.  Never once thought to ask questions before pulling the trigger.  Before finalizing the kill.  It was not a matter of negotiation.  Demons were bad.  They ruined lives, destroyed families, and were a disease that the earth needed to be rid of.

There had been so much.  Strewn over books that first year, killing whatever nasty ugly that crossed his path.  Researching, memorizing, and researching more.  Learning everything there was about the Order of Aurelius.  Its members, their respected histories, and their bloody trail throughout Europe.  Flash.  There was Darla and Angelus, terrorizing a demon hunter named Holtz.  Another.  Murdering a girl in a convent.  Making a bloody mess of said convent.  Another.  Killing Drusilla's family right in front of her; bathing in their crimson goodness before finishing off with the ultimate insult.  Pumping her blood with their darkness.  Making her one of them.

History was scattered with her.  Every page.  Every word.  Every syllable.  There she was.  Darla.  Russia, France, Ireland, Germany, Spain, Romania…it never ended.  It never halted.  Not for her.  Wherever she went, she killed.  And wherever she killed, she made sure her presence was known.

And she wasn't even the worst of them.  Oh no.  The master must ultimately bow to its creation.  She had molded herself into her own Pygmalion, passing as much mutated affection to her sculpture as possible.  Without a doubt, Angelus took the cake.  Hell, he sold out the bakery.  There wasn't a single mention of him that wasn't drenched in blood.  He was the leader of Hell's armies.  He was the reason there wasn't an atheist in the foxhole.  He was practically what had given vampires the reputation they had.

It was a consistency.  The Master had made Darla.  Darla had made Angelus.  Angelus made Drusilla.  And Drusilla had made the vampire that was currently his partner.  His cohort.  His associate.  And he was going against those he was bound to in blood to save the one person that shouldn't matter.

With no thought for himself.

Absolutely amazing.

Wright would have liked to believe it a rouse.  He would have liked that more than anything save Amber before him right now, safe and sound, reassuring him that the past seven years had been some awful dream.  But things had changed.  An entire career built on stone, and it took only a matter of hours for his barriers to come crumbling down.  To his credit, he didn't believe that Spike realized how much he had allowed himself to soften since their haphazard acquaintance.  He honestly didn't remember laughing this much in the past forever for genuine purposes.  For free, silly, adult humor.  

He was beginning to feel again, and that was never good.

If he felt, it meant he was still human.  Still living, still breathing.

And she was still gone.

Zack sighed coarsely, eying Spike again.  A large part of him wanted it over with.  To simply kiss the last of his compassion goodbye and kill the vampire for what he had been, not what he currently was.  To deny such a creature of any form of offered deliverance.  He wanted to.  He wanted to so badly.  Because if Amber hadn't been given a chance, why should he?  Why should this Slayer he was so hung up on?  Why should _anyone?_

Because this—this whatever it was—was true.  He hated it, but it was true. The night before served as enough proof.  Enough reason.  The look in his eyes.  That raw emptiness.  That utter sadness.  That fleeting rage that was overwhelmed only by the most burdened anguish ever felt.  Spike's face.  Hearing that Buffy had been killed.

Even if he knew it was likely a fluke.

A true vampire would have ended it there.  A true vampire couldn't love.

Not really.

There hadn't been anything to suggest monstrosity.  The human wave of anger, of course.  The rawness aligning his tensed muscles at he, paler than an undead man should ever be, completed the call as best as he could before retreating upstairs in solitude.  And even after he knew that after the rain cloud had lifted, his mood hadn't changed.  

He had reveled.  Reveled in what he lost in thought.  In theory.

What he didn't have to lose to begin with.

He really loved this woman.

And Zack hated himself for seeing it.  Hated himself for breaking, even if it had yet to show.  Hated himself for being here, for helping a creature he should have dusted, for doing anything other than what he came here to do.

Darla.  He was here to kill Darla.

And fucking yet.

Spike met his eyes suddenly; such that Zack had hardly noticed he had been watching him.  They shared a long look of mutual understanding; too much passed in too little time for comfort.  Another level to his added corruption.

Corruption by a vampire who was, in turn, being corrupted by vampires.

Irony, thy name is Wright.

There was sudden rustling behind him, and without feeling the obligation to turn; he knew that Angelus had entered the scene.  It was nothing if not an innate and sometimes frightening sixth sense.  Something developed over the years of building and keeping himself safely guarded from the eye of redemptive humanity.  Had he more time for deeper consideration, he might have wondered how he _knew _it was Angelus, but settled infinitely on the look in his vampiric cohort's eyes.  Some things were better left unexplained.

Now to put on a smile and act like a right loon.  

It was time.

Zack pivoted sharply at the heel and would have plowed directly into Angelus had the vampire not already taken the means to push him aside.  He didn't even pay attention to him; his gaze set prematurely on Spike, whose act had raised several notches in ode to the grandsire's arrival.  He was appraising some slutty purple-skinned demon-whore, eyes not once drifting upward.  

"What the hell is this?"

Wright cleared his throat and plastered on what had to be dumbest smile of all time.  "Isn't it great?" he asked loudly, earning only a mildly irritated glance for his troubles.  "See that guy?  Over there?  With all the—"

Angelus didn't even spare him a glance.  "Shut up."  

"Unbelievable.  And—whew—what a set of pipes!  Took one turn at the mic and all those girlies just flocked over to him."  Zack clasped his hands together and rubbed conspiratorially.  "And what's best, he'd promise he'd turn me once he got something worked out with his schedule.  Can you imagine it?  A vampire!  Living for-fucking-ever!  Think of how much tail you'd get after a few centuries.  Man, wait until I tell the guys downtown about THIS!  They'll shit themselves!"

At that, Angelus's attention was snagged.

"He what?"

Wright's countenance dimmed slightly, and he shrugged as though his previous excitement was of no consequence.  "Oh, he's a vampire.  Or he says he's a vampire.  If he's not, he has this really cool trick where his face goes all fangy.  Not the prettiest picture, but hey—no reflection, so it's not like I'd have to see myself or anything."  Then he made a face.  "'Course, there is that 'drinking blood' thing.  Yuck—disgusting.  But I guess small prices must be paid, if I'm going to live forever.  What do you think?"

There was a definitive snap in the vampire's pretense, and his bumpies emerged without further prompt.  A preemptive struggle to refrain from simply shoving the man against a wall, but he did manage to back Zack into a corner, hand forcefully on his shoulder to hold him in place.  

Wright thought he faked fear quite well for a beginner.  It had been, after all, a long time since such had been deemed essential.  Then his eyes widened and a broad grin tackled his features.  "Oh, dude!" he exclaimed.  "You're a vamp, too!  Man, this is _so _my night."

Just as he reckoned, Angelus was not in the mood for pleasantries.  "Better watch it, boy," he growled, "or I might be persuaded to take you outside.  You know what happens when we go outside, right?"

"We hail a cab?"

The demon stared at him incredulously and rolled his eyes.  "You've got to be kidding me!" he yelled to no one in particular, cutting a brief silence through the noise that surrounded them before the respected clientele returned to their business.  "Spike was going to let _you _live forever?  Sheesh, and I thought that boy had standards."  He paused with a small, secretive grin.  "Or wait, maybe not."

"H-he told me th-that he w-was better t-to start somewhere after a f-fa-famine."

Stuttering was always good.  Gave it a feel of realism.

"All right, Polly.  Talk."  It was actually rather amusing; Wright could tell that he was dying to do something to measure his words.  Slam him against the wall, tighten his grip around his throat, rip his lungs out and lick them clean—the usuals.  "What do you know?  And the truth, please.  You see, I get a little…testy…when I feel I'm being had.  You wouldn't want me to get testy, would you?"

"Look, man!" he cried, clutching the vampire's wrist tightly in semblance of fear.  "All I know is that that dude sang—"

"He sang?"

"Yeah!  He totally sang!  And then—"

"The Host?  He around here?"

Zack frowned ignorantly.  "Host?  What Host?"

There was a rumbled sigh of exasperation.  "I don't know why I'm surprised. That little ignoramus always did want to sire idiots as useless as him.  The Host!  A tall, greenish fellow, un_speak_ably annoying with a tendency to read your dry, meaningless, and rapidly-becoming-shorter future when you pay tribute to your favorite Patsy Cline number?"  

"Oh!  The green guy!" Wright wriggled free from the vampire's domineering grasp and nodded, pointing at the bar.  "Man, that dude pulled a total wig and has been over there ever since."

Sure enough, Lorne was perched faithfully on a barstool, brilliantly crimson rag against his forehead as he sipped at a Sea Breeze.  He was talking with the server, occasionally throwing irritated, half-frightened glances over his shoulder.  When he glanced over to the pair, his eyes widened and he yelped something unintelligible before making a quick break for a section reserved for staff only. 

A blaze of confusion and surprise overwhelmed the vampire.  Zack had to refrain from the temptation to yelp his success.

Then a soft voice broke the reverie.  Soft, but not from bursting with egotistical glory.  The peroxide vampire was standing just a few feet away, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, brows raised and the kitschiest smile on his face.  "Whatsa matter, Peaches?" he asked contemptuously.  "You eat another philanthropist, or aren' you happy to see me?" 

"Spike," Angelus said in greeting, releasing Wright completely.  "I must admit, this is not what I expected.  Making with the singing, taking up losers more pathetic than you…well, not quite, but close.  What?  You trying to impress me?"

"Not for you, mate.  Or 'aven't you learned that yet?"

"You set this up for my benefit?  Really, I'm touched."

The younger vampire merely shrugged, rocking on his heels a bit.  "Jus' thought you'd appreciate a bit of the old proof.  My last debut wasn' exactly anythin' I'd brag about."

"Yeah, I heard.  Moping and wailing and throwing yourself on the ground so the poor, dainty Slayer doesn't get her feet wet."  Angelus shook his head, tsking with a nasty smile on his face.  "I gotta say, your taste just gets funnier and funnier."

Zack's brows arched, but Spike didn't look at him.  

"Don' really see where you're one to talk, mate.  You're the one who popped her cherry, after all."  He shrugged and reached for his cigarettes, glancing upward.  "Anyway, 'm bloody over it.  Guess I wanted a li'l taste, but no harm no bloody foul.  Bit of the old spot of violence oughta throw me properly back in the game."  He jutted his chin toward Wright, but the elder didn't follow his gaze.  "Even brought me a peace-offerin' for Dru."

"You really think she's gonna forgive you that easily?"

Spike's brows arched, and he blew out a column of smoke.  "Well, no.  That bein' what the peace-offering's for, you ninny."

"You got a lot to own up for, and I'm not sure I'm buying this change of heart of your change of heart."  Angelus stepped forward leeringly.  "Funny how the last time I saw you, you had decided to take up a place next to the Slayer and her holy brigade of apocalypse-stopping buffoons."

"Well, the Slayer's gone now, isn't she?" the Cockney demanded emphatically.  "Shouldn't be a problem unless you decide to lose your marbles over another one, as far as I'm concerned.  'Sides, my story sticks.  I like this world.  'S got all sorts of bloody potential.  An', truly mate, that was more 'cause I was tired of listenin' to you an' Dru knockin' boots.  Darla's bein' back'll be enough to gimme at leas' some quality time with my dearest, don'cha think?"  

Angelus gave him a long, thoughtful look.  "You see, William," he said.  "This is where I'm having my problem.  I don't think we have any use for you…at all.  Other than the occasional knack for keeping Dru entertained, you brought nothing to the Order except an unbelievably annoying knack of getting in my way."

"Well," the younger retorted, taking another puff of his cigarette.  "This is how _I_ see it.  This Wolfram an' Hart gig's bigger than you, an' tha's jus' killin' your poor precious, evil-based ego, especially after a career in workin' to stop the very thing that got you mentioned in all those dull-as-dust anthologies.  More over, way I heard it, this was all fixed accordin' to their likin'.  I could always take it up with that Lindsey bloke or someone with a bit more tug.  Someone a li'l higher up on the food chain.  Or I could let you live in your li'l delusion of grandeur an' come back on your terms.  Which would you prefer?"

There was a long beat of unbridled consideration.  Angelus's eyes narrowed.  

"And the whelp?" he asked.

Spike shrugged.  "Jus' a tasty li'l morsel to smooth over my princess.  I do owe her an apology."

Angelus's brows rose appraisingly.  "Morsel got a name?"

"Zack."  Wright's eyes went wide, and the peroxide vampire must have caught it, for he dove for the first loophole he could find, and succeeded rather admirably.  "Morris."

Or maybe not.

Well, two could play at that game.

"There are some who call me…Tim…" Zack retorted ominously, earning a skeptically quizzical glance from the elder and a quick flash of annoyed amusement from his grandchilde.  

Angelus quirked a brow and nodded disinterestedly at Wright, not bothering to mask his cynicism.  "You really think Dru's gonna forgive you if you give her this?"

"Willin' to try, mate.  Got any better ideas?"

The elder smiled conspiratorially.  "A few. But this is a decent start."   

"Yeh.  'Cept I still got me a problem."  The peroxide vampire tapped his cranium; ignoring the pointedly unabashed look of accusation the demon hunter shot him in turn.  "Li'l birdie told me that your friends might be able to help me out in that department.  Make it so I can chase the other puppies again."

"Ah, yes.  The chip."  Angelus crossed his arms, chuckling richly.  "Only _you_ would be incompetent enough to become the lab monkey of some fraternity boys.  I—"

"Yeh, yeh.  I've heard 'em all, you overgrown ponce.  Do your bloody worst, but you'll be wastin' your lack of breath.  Oh, an' while you're at it, feel free to stuff it."

He earned a string of tsks in turn.  "Temper, temper.  Why would I stop when it's so much fun?"  The elder demon shook his head and rumbled another long chuckle.  "You always did offend easily, Spike.  Never took care of that.  Gives others the advantage… Not to mention it makes pissing you off just…hilarious."

The peroxide vampire's eyes narrowed.  "You gonna help me out or not?"

"Oh, I don't know.  You didn't say _please."_

"I could rip your head off.  Be jus' as effective an' a whole lot funnier."

Angelus nodded appraisingly.  "Big words.  Think you could?"

"Guess we could always find out."

It was boisterous, and the platinum Cockney knew it.  Despite his strength—his speed and agility—he had never been able to best the elder in battle.  And yet, despite immeasurable odds, therein awaited conviction.  Strength.  And for the weight of what he was gambling against, Spike felt he could part the Red Sea.

It didn't take long; the vampire finally cracked a smile and thumped his grandchilde on the back for good measure.  "At least you haven't lost your sense of humor," he reasoned.  "Right.  I'll have Lindsey make the arrangements."  His eyes danced.  "Get you…deprogrammed."

"'m droppin' in," Spike retorted, not nearly as cordial.  "Tomorrow at sundown.  All right?  Then we can get to it.  Get the sodding procedure over with."

Angelus smiled; it wasn't pleasant.  "And then…I think I'll take everyone out on a little field trip.  It's been too long since we went out for a good old-fashioned hunt."

"Do I get to come?" Zack intervened, struggling to desist from glaring at his companion and even more so to blockade the chorus of _I told you so's! _his mind was playing on incessant repeat.

The elder vampire's gaze remained level.  "Sure," he said, though his voice dripped with falsity.  "We'll bring the whole family."

At that, Spike froze and his eyes widened.  Whole family.  Did that include…

He wouldn't speculate.  He couldn't.

Angelus left shortly thereafter, much to the Host's vocal relief.  He had wormed his way to the stage moments later to assure everyone that the vampire had not been here of his invitation, and that he would be looking into enhanced vampire repellant spells that could designate who was and wasn't invited in.  While the visit had gone considerably better than it could have, the regulars were still shaken.  

The guy was a fucking legend.  No question about that.

Spike and Zack didn't linger around that long, either.  From the look in the demon hunter's eyes, he was just itching to get his companion out where a sanctuary spell wouldn't keep them guarded from each other, though the vampire hadn't the faintest idea why.  The only thing he was certain of was the temperament had, at some point, gone seriously downhill during the trade.  

Perhaps he had underestimated his own acting abilities.  This was the second time he had fooled Angelus.  The previous year had seen an effective scheme-filled screw over of the Scoobies for Adam's benefit.  And now Zack Wright: the demon hunter who wasn't too keen on believing him in the first place.

"'Some call me Tim'?" he demanded as soon as they reemerged to street level.  "Were you bloody _tryin' _to give us away?  This is too fucking important to be tryin' to show up each other with pop culture references.  Cor, 's a good thing Angelus 's such a bloody dolt; stupid wanker never had enough humor in his life to appreciate Monty Python when he was all—"

There was a cautionary smile, despite his noted icy disposition.  That was an improvement.  At least they were beyond the 'I'm-staking-you-no-questions-asked' phase.  "Hello!  You're the one who decided that I resembled the star of some inane after-school special."

Spike shrugged, unable to conceal a grin.  "'Ey, you're lucky I was able to recover that quickly.  It was the firs' thing that came to mind."

Wright stared at him blankly.  _"Saved By The Bell _was the first thing that came to mind?"

"Rather fittin', don'cha think?"  The peroxide vampire was practically trembling with mirth.   "Mate, I don' think there's anyone in the whole soddin' world tha's watched more telly in the expanse of their sad, empty lives as I have this past year.  Let's face it, 'e's the most popular _Zack _there is out there in syndication."

"If I'm Zack Morris, does that make you Screech?"

"Oi!  Watch it!"

There was a chuckle as they fell into step.  Comfortable.  Even with the noise and busywork of a city that refused to retire even when the rest of the world was sleeping.  Even with everything.

It was a few minutes before either spoke again.

"Are you really going to do it?"

Spike glanced up.  "Do what?"

"Get your chip removed?"

A thoughtful pause of understanding at that.  So that was the reason the man had frozen inside.  It made sense, in retrospect.  For a vampire who claimed to be off the good stuff, to immediately leap at the chance to have his handicap removed had to look more than suspicious.

But that didn't change intent.  Yes, Spike wanted the chip out.  He wanted it out more now than ever.  He knew that his unspoken oath to Buffy would keep from killing—whether or not that lasted.  There would be no hurrying to off her friends.  There would be no hurrying to off anyone.  There would be _no _offing of anyone.  He was on a strict diet of pig's blood, and he intended to adhere its conditions.

At least for now.

It was more than that.  Spike recognized his calling enough to understand that whatever decision he made now was final.  The reemergence of his humanity wouldn't take a break.  Wouldn't stop.  Oh no, it kept coming.  Kept with every breath he didn't breathe.  A chip didn't make or break anyone.  His had simply offered him a window.  A view.  And he, being the enormous dolt he was, had looked out.

He had been reminded of the world before he was killed.

The chip was just hampering him.  And it was dangerous.  It was dangerous for him with people like Zachary Wright out there.  Those who had been wronged by vampires or demons.  Those on a mission to cleanse the world of her disease—or do enough that they could die with a clear conscience.  He needed means of protection.  He needed something, or else the legend William the Bloody would meet an ending that was not at all complimentary to his reputation.

"Yeh," he replied at last.  "'m gonna do it."

There was a sigh, and the joking disposition his companion wore diminished almost immediately.  "You hypocritical bastard, I knew—"

"'m not gonna kill anyone, Zangy.  Jus' stop assumin' before I'm forced to kill another fucking cliché."  Spike sighed and shook his head.  "It doesn' have anythin' to do with nummy people treats.  I give you my sodding word on that, all right?  I eat anyone; you're free to stake me.  No questions asked.  I won' even put up a bloody fight.  That rest well with you?"

Another breath.  The man's anger dimmed almost instantly.  As though his will to believe had been pushed simply by obligatory objection.  That notion was warming.  They were making progress after all.  "All right."

An understanding.  Formed, spoken, and agreed upon.

All right.

*~*~*

Lindsey slammed the phone down, though kept his fist coiled in a steadfast grip for long seconds.  Long trembles rumbled through his body, every inch of willpower tingling on its last nerve.  He was fighting the urge to yank out the cord and consign the entire thing to the wall with a definitive smash.  

So fucking sick of everything going wrong.  One thing after another.  Darla.  Dru.  Angelus.  The Slayer.

And now Spike.  Spike was on board.  On board, and he wanted the fucking chip out.

Well, of course he did.  Couldn't torture a Slayer with a zapper in the noggin.

This had gone far enough.  It was time for action.

He would be damned before William the Bloody set a foot in this office. 

Lindsey chuckled humorlessly, relaxing his grip and bringing the phone to his ear again.  Easy enough.  He was damned, anyway.

"McDonald here," he said, voice cutting through the dark silence of his office.  A man encased in his self-made shadows.  The days had grown longer without his consent.  He wondered who to talk to about that.  "I need you to assemble a team.  We have another ad hoc vampire to take out.  Yeah.  Right away."

He might be damned, but there was no way he was adding to his sentence.  If he was going down, he was going to take as many with him as possible.

Might as well use power while it was still his.

It was the least he could do.

**To be continued in Chapter Nineteen: _To The Innocent_…**


	20. To The Innocent

**A/N: Some general coolness, I picked up several nominations over at _Loves Last Glimpse._****_Sang et Ivoire _is up for Best Saga.  _Cupidity_ is up for**** Best Episode Stealer.****  _Nemesis _is up for Best Angst, Best Romance, and Best Characterization.  _The Interview _is up for Best Comedy/Fluff and Best Characterization, and _Harbingers of Beatrice _is up for Best Saga, Best WIP, Best Angst, and Best Romance.  And I somehow managed to snag a Best Author nomination.  And to that, a major wow. My sincere thanks to whoever nominated me.  Ya'll rock.**

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**Chapter Nineteen**

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**To The Innocent**

In the course of his long unlife, Spike had developed several fundamental understandings.  Never bite off more than you can chew (followed closely by never chew more than you can bite), where there's a will there's a way, and never give homeless folk loose change.  Always heightens their spirits.  Better to keep them grounded in reality and get a free meal out of the deal at the same time.

Likewise, there were guidelines that one saved for a rainy day.  He had those long memorized, as well.  Among the lesser-known stanzas were: there were slums, and there were _slums._

And Zack Wright's motel was in the middle of a _slum.  _

"'m a creature who lives in a graveyard," Spike reasoned as they approached the building; one alit with neon lights that had the majority of _vacancy _burnt out, so that the sign flashed **NO CAN**every other beat.  "More than that, in a bloody pit of filth.  Granted I've done as much with the place as I can…but this, mate, is godawful."

Wright tossed an irritated glance over his shoulder.  "I wanted to keep a low profile, all right?" 

The vampire appraised the building with his eyes, grinning tightly to himself.  "Good job."

"Look, would you mind waiting out here?"

"Why?"

"I just need to grab a few things and we can get going."

Spike's eyes narrowed.  "Afraid to let a bloodsuckin' fiend see the grime inside your grime?  Come on, Zangy.  'S not like I have standards."

"I'd really rather you wait out here."

"Well, 'm not gonna."

Zack sighed in exasperation, caressing the bridge of his nose.  "Why?" His voice teetered on the very edge of reason.  The emptied foreshadowing that no matter the reply, he was liable to break to his last whim and resort to petty threats.  

"'Cause 's botherin' you, an' now my interest is piqued."

"Well, it's going to remain unsatisfied."

Spike was practically bouncing with buoyancy now; features alit with boy like fascination in a manner that suggested he would plow his companion down, chip be damned, if only to get to the other side.  "Come on, mate!"

"No."

"Wha's there to hide?"  At that, the vampire stopped and his eyes narrowed.  "You got drugs in there?"

Zack stared at him; half stunned, half aghast.  "What?  No!"

"You do so!"

"Leave me alone!"

"You got a stash in there, an' you don' wanna share."  He held up his hands.  "Well, don' worry.  I gave up the psychedelic buzz back in the '60s.  Made me see things even wonkier than usual."

"That being the point, I can see why."

"So, there you 'ave it.  'm not gonna lay a hand on your goods."

"Yes, I know.  Mainly because you won't be seeing them."

The vampire's face fell into a petulant pout.  He was on the verge of whining like a three year-old.  "Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"That's the lamest excuse ever."

Wright grinned.  "You've been hanging around Cordelia too much."

A rumbled blurb of amusement tackled the air and Spike shook his head.  "Bint does have a way with words," he conceded.  "An' she was talkin' you up earlier.  Seems to think you're her type of guy."

The hint of tease faded into the hunter's tone.  He shadowed a grin and neared the door to his motel room, hiding his face from sight.  "Is that so?"

"Only 'cause I'm unavailable."

"Oh.  Right."  He began wrestling with the lock, conceding a glance up to toss the vampire a wicked smile.  "And by unavailable, you mean 'hopelessly in love with someone who has too much of hero complex to return the feeling,' I take it."

"Not funny, mate."

Wright cocked his head in consideration before unexpectedly throwing himself against the stubborn door in an overall ineffective body slam.  Overnight, it had evidently decided to stick.  "It is if you're me."

Spike sighed heavily.  "'ll find time to laugh when she's back safe an' sound," he decided.  "Then it'll be tragically funny.  'Sides, Cordelia's cute, but she's as daft as a table lamp.  More your type."

"Oh, so you think I'm cute?"

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes.  "Right.  Bloody adorable."

There was an amused snicker that nearly covered the hunter's noteworthy haste in making it through the door before the vampire could second guess his intentions.  Of course, as all things, it couldn't last more than a second.  Too soon the peroxide Cockney caught on and all but threw himself at the closing barrier to give it a good shove.  

"Give it up.  You're not getting in."

"You right bastard."

Wright grinned and managed to fasten the chain lock.  "Sorry," he replied in a tone offering anything but distress. 

The victor's lapse was his celebration.  The fleeting forgetfulness that, yes, while he did have strength that some might consider subhuman, his companion had strength that _was.  _Before he could even turn around, Spike had snapped the lock in two and tumbled inward with a haphazard crash.

"You ass!"

The vampire fought to his feet, dusted himself off, and flashed another grin.  _"Sorry," _he retorted in the same tenor.  

"If I ever find the idiot that decided vamps could enter public accommodations without an invite, I'm going to tear his spleen out."

"That'd be the PTB, mate, an' good luck."

Zack snorted; Spike chuckled.

Then he took a look around.  

The room was pretty much that: a room.  A telly, two beds that had been semi-made by room service, and a sparse collection of things that one could likely manage to live without forever, much less however long he intended on staying in the Hyperion.  There was nothing lying around that seemed remotely incriminating.  A large anticlimax after an equally foolhardy struggle that neither would be bragging about later.

Spike turned to Zack, brow domed to perfection.

"You were tryin' to hide the roaches, is that it?"

To his surprise, however, Wright looked equally bereft at the lack of scandalous findings, though he did not bear the mark of a man robbed.  He instead bore a sideways irritation.  The same that he saw half a dozen times on the Slayer's face every day when he was implicated in any given matter.

Spike refused to adhere to the unspoken _past-tense_ of that clause.  There was no past-tense where he was concerned.

And there never would be.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

"I'm a bad housekeeper," Wright invented lamely, gathering his belongings.  It was most clearly an invention; no one looked that puzzled at his own excuse without reasonable merit.  "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"What?"

"I have to…" Zack nodded indiscreetly for the bathroom.  

"Use the loo?  Thanks.  Din't need a soddin' diagram."

He frowned, instantly angry.  "I didn't—" He started before realizing that irritation was ineffectual when the target was one William the Bloody.  Instead, Wright shook his head and marched intently for the restroom, snatching something too quickly for it to have caught the vampire's notice.  "Never mind.  I've given up trying to argue with you."

"Given up?  Already?" Spike glanced up and flashed a grin.  "'S so early in the game, mate."

"Yeah, well, I'm not playing."  That was definitively that; like a three year old determined to get the last word, Wright slammed the door to the restroom and locked himself inside.  The action prompted a chuckle but nothing more.  That bloke was more than a little strange.

And then, for no reason whatever, the vampire found himself overwhelmed with the notion that he needed to call Rupert right then.

Likely because he hadn't kept up to his word at all like he intended.

Well, like he intended to intend, anyway.

Like he said he would.

"Zangy!" he called.  "'m usin' your phone.  You mind?"

There was a muffled response that he didn't exactly know how to translate.  Conceding, he took that as the go-ahead, offered his thanks, and correspondingly decided to ignore the ruffled comment he earned in turn.  

The call was likely the wisest thing he had done all day; he agreed wholeheartedly with Zack's conception that his plan was the quickest.  The most liable to produce speedy results, but speedy did not always equal good, and the peroxide vampire would be the first to acknowledge this.  In the past, such things wouldn't have bothered him.  He was an advocator of making the rules up as he went along, bugger all to consequences, present and future.  There was always a loophole to seize.  A window to crawl through.  Something that measured his complacency with enough accuracy not to be discounted.

This was not such case.  Not with the life of his Slayer hanging in the balance.  The wrong move would solidify her end, and he would never forgive himself.

Pawns were in set; things were in motion that could not be redone.  He knew it.  It was simply a matter of eluding the voice that forewarned with petulant reiteration that every step he took sank him deeper into an immutable mistake.

"Look, Rupes," he said, barraging mindlessly into a stream of tedious dialogue that was designated to warn and scold even more so than he had already.  Perhaps it was the ambiance, the company, or the severity of the circumstances, but the Watcher's warnings seemed even less valid and worrisome than usual.  And of everyone there was in Sunnydale to fear, Spike's hat was off to Rupert Giles.  The old man had stones in him, even if he was the only one to see it.  He had stones, and he was not afraid to refer to them with every beat of his calling.  "'F I can, I'll give you a ring, but from here on out, you're jus' gonna have to trust me, all right?  'm not gonna be in the position to pick up the bloody phone every five minutes."

"Yes, that would be quite the accomplishment," the Watcher agreed irritably.  "Considering your contact with me has been at a very minimal percentage of what we decided upon your leaving."

"Things change, mate.  I think you of all people should appreciate it."  Spike tossed a brief glance to the closed door.  Wright was still in the loo.  "Anyway, 's not like I'm flyin' in solo.  Angel's merry band of superheroes are all on board, an'…I got help in other places."

"Other places?"

Spike nodded ineffectually; the lifeless room answered in with the same sort of candor.  "Yeh," he replied.  "There's this hunter, a demon hunter.  'E's an all right git once you get passed the attitude an' bias…'course, now that I think about it, tha's right up your alley, innit?  This guy's big on the wronged-out-for-vengeance gig.  Seems Darla pulled a nasty before she joined up with the Master in SunnyD.  Completely ruined this bloke's life.  'S a sad story…she did things that I din't think she had the gall to—"

"You're telling me that you feel for what she did?"

The peroxide vampire blinked at the unexpected wave of brazen incredulity before recalling just whom he was speaking with.  A bloke becomes accustomed to one thing and all else falls uncertain.  That was certainly one thing that earned his favor with the Los Angeles crowd: the reason to understand without prejudice.  It was nice.

And more so, despite his reluctance to admit it, he did feel for what Darla had done.  He felt more than even he thought a vampire could.  He felt because he had sampled a taste of the same the night before, and found its flavor more than disagreeable.  If any of his so-called family even thought of torturing Buffy in that manner, he would have all their heads on stakes before they could explode into dust.

"Well, yeh."

"I can't believe you're bringing freelancers into this.  Do you have the slightest idea—"

At that, the vampire scowled.  "Oi!  Wait a minute!  Zangy's no bloody freelancer, _mate.  _'E's one of us."

"One of you?"

Oh.  Of course.  One of _you.  _One of Spike's kind in the eyes of Rupert Giles.

Of all the fucking nerve… 

"How did this man know that Darla was back?  How did he know where to find her at all?"

Spike opened his mouth to reply, then paused and realized that he didn't know.

Huh.  Well, that was odd.  He remembered Wright mentioning that he received word, but he never identified a source.

Still, that was consequential.  It didn't mean anything.

Only it could mean the world.

"Wes," he invented quickly, tossing a glance to the bathroom door as it opened again and Wright stepped out, brows perked.  "'E's a friend of Wes's.  Blokes know each other from the way-back-when.  'E's the one that brought 'im in."

Zack frowned, not following.

Spike waved generally and turned his back, though watching the other man carefully, fresh with new suspicion.  The turns he had taken thus far were irreversible, and while the face he saw was the same that Lorne claimed to have directed him to, mistakes were known to happen in the past.

It was likely explainable.  Why he was here.  How he knew about Darla.  How he knew so much about the Order of Aurelius.  How he knew _everything.  _All within the same measure of reasonability.  

It occurred to the vampire that this was a very dangerous ploy.  His want of feeling was becoming more and more human by the day, and it would eventually lead him to a dead end.  He wanted to believe Wright was legit more than anything.  He wanted to believe because, in the time they had spent together, he had grown rather fond of him.  And that wasn't something that happened to the peroxide Cockney every day.  Hell, it wasn't something that happened every century.  Angelus was the only other male in his life that could even begin to qualify as a relation, and that was simply because they had tolerated each other for twenty or so years.  There was Giles and Xander, of course, but he wouldn't even pretend that what they shared merited the status of friendship.  

And while Wright would likely deny it with every fiber of his being, they were as close to becoming friends as Spike had ever experienced.

"Look, 'm bein' careful, all right," he snapped, turning his attention back to the receiver sharply.  "'F anythin' of importance 'appens, I'll give you a ring.  But tha's it. All right?  I can't be runnin' off to the phone 'cause you want me to.  There are things in motion that—"

"We're leaving town, Spike."

Okay.  Out of the blue, much?

He willed his eyes shut.  God, he missed her.

"Oh?"

"The Watcher's Council shared some rather dire news with us pertaining to Glory, and I refuse to risk more by sitting around here.  Buffy's family…her everything is in danger, more than just her life."  There was an edge to the Watcher's voice that he didn't want to place.  The sort of will of giving in before the game was through.  As though everything was lost and there was nowhere to go but away.  "I cannot put Dawn in that much danger.  Joyce is beside herself enough with worry…"

Spike emanated a long sigh at that.  He hadn't even allowed himself to think how the Slayer's mother was reacting to all this.  

"…and her condition…" There was a long pause.  "Her condition might be worsening as well.  We—"

God.  Everything was falling apart.

"Right," he agreed hoarsely.  "How do I reach you?"

"Wesley should have my cell number.  If not, contact me through the Watcher's Council.  I won't disclose anything now."  Another silence, not quite as long.  "Please, Spike," he said softly, forfeiting everything that ever was with a simple note of aching desperation.  "Please get her back.  If you do…I'll…"

"Don' make promises, Rupes," Spike replied.  "I'm not here to barter or trade.  I'm here 'cause she's gonna make it.  You get me?"

There was a near incoherent concession at that, the exchange of not-so-pleasant pleasantries, and the general bout of usual threats before he brought the call to conclusion.  Zack arched a brow and heaved his bag over his shoulder once more, nodding for the door.  

"I take it your friends back in Sunnydale don't know about your little Slayer infatuation?" he said flippantly.

"Oh, they know I have a Slayer infatuation," Spike replied gruffly.  "They jus' don' know 's gone from 'wanna kill' to 'wanna shag.'"

The other man arched a brow.  "Is that all you wanna do?" he ventured softly, as though afraid of the answer.  "'Cause last time I checked, grown men didn't cry when a potential cum-bucket kicked it."

The punch hit through the still of the room like dry wood smacking against a steel bin, and Spike's consequential yelp of pain solidified its end.  Wright made no move to defend himself; he reckoned he deserved it for that remark, but that didn't mean he wasn't irritated.

"What the hell was that?" 

Spike reeled immediately, his eyes shining defiant strands of yellow through a frenzied mess.  "Don't _ever _talk about her like that," he warned lowly.  "Ever.  Do you understand me?"

There was a long pause.  

"Yeah," Wright conceded finally, nodding.  It was earnest.  He turned to absently slide a scrap of paper to the dresser, eyes shining reverently.  "I'm sorry.  That was beyond uncalled for."

"You're bloody right it was."

"I'm sorry."

A few beats ticked by, the air lingering with their mingled breaths.  Finally, Spike nodded and moved to brush passed his companion.  "Right then," he said, casting a quick, curious glance to the discarded note but unwilling to allow his eyes to linger.  "Get everythin' you need?"

Zack nodded.  "Yeah, I think so."

Another glance.  Markings were comprehensible this time.  "Right then," he agreed.  "Let's off."

Wright edged out the door, and Spike turned fully to the dresser.  After all, curiosity killed the cat.  While he wasn't a cat, he wasn't any better when it came to ranges of ignorance. 

The final glance sealed it. 

On the paper, very legibly, was the word _Hyperion._

*~*~*

They didn't outside a stone's throw of Zack's motel room before something went wrong.

Very wrong.

It wasn't as though Spike hadn't faced odds of a lesser magnitude.  He was more than accustomed to being in the full of danger's glance with every step that he took, and had long ago conceded to the same adage that he had at some point forewarned the Slayer about.  Every day, one must acknowledge that the morning's wake might be the last known from the earthly helix.  Of course, in the vampire's perspective, whatever came his way was ultimately avoidable.  There hadn't been a situation yet that he had not managed to talk himself out of, but that didn't mean he wasn't grounded.

He wasn't Angelus.  He knew that his tale would likely have a dusty ending.  He knew he wasn't invincible.

However, he would be damned even more than he already was if the lot of wankers surrounding him now were the ones to finalize the period of his very long sentence.

"Friends of yours?" Wright demanded.  They were back to back—surrounded by a gang of seven or eight vamps that could have passed as a wandering street gang had Spike not known what to look for. 

The peroxide Cockney arched a brow, still attempting to gauge the situation.  Each of the aggressors was wielding something wooden and pointy, and while some eyed his companion's jugular hungry, it was more than obvious that he was target.  This did not ring as good.  

They had been sent to dispatch him.  And as if to clarify this point, one broke the unspoken etiquette of the pack and launched himself toward the intended.  Disarming him was simple; a matter of skill and cunning, of which the elder vampire had in abundance.  The overall impact was anticlimactic; with a huff, the platinum blonde wheedled the makeshift stake from his opponent's grasp and sent the other spiraling down the apex of categorical dustiness.  One down.  It wasn't difficult to label these wannabes as babies of a larger world.  He had been around the block enough times to know who was and wasn't of the old blood.

No.  They were mercenary vamps.  He _hated _mercenary vamps.

"I'd say an emphatic no," Spike retorted.

"I'm agreeing."  Wright exhaled deeply and withdrew something from the lapels of his jacket.  Another stake, most likely, or a weapon of similar nature.  The peroxide vampire wagered that he kept something that would kill vampires handy at all times, just in case he happened to run into a certain blonde female whose demise was quicker than she likely wagered.  

"What do you think?" 

Spike snickered.  "I think I've made more enemies in this town than friends.  Bloody Peaches.  Weren' we s'posed to be pullin' one over on him?"

He wouldn't mention the other option: the one where this was all Wright's doing.

"No.  I mean, you take the three over there, I get the four over here?"

"Why should you get four?"

Zack glanced over his shoulder and flashed a cocky grin.  "Because I called it."

Spike smothered a smirk.  There was more of himself in his companion than he had ever encountered in another individual.  "Not 'f I beat you to it, mate."

"Loser buys drinks?"

He chuckled.  "You're gonna be outta money 'f you keep on like that.  But you got a deal."

They broke apart at the same time, launching headfirst into a dance that either man had long ago memorized and mastered.  Poetry in bloody motion.  Spike felt the familiar rush of unbridled excitement tackle his senses, and he whooped in merriment.  Too long.  It had been far too long since he had indulged in a true decent spot of violence.

There was one perk to living in Los Angeles, he supposed. There would never be any of the slow nights that had befallen Sunnydale the weeks before Angelus's reemergence.  

It was series of low blows and high punches.  All too soon, Spike had dispatched the three that had served as his prime directive and turned his focus to Wright, catching a glimpse of the man's fighting skill for the first time.  And despite however much he hated to admit it, the hunter knew what he was doing.  He moved musically—set infinitely to his own beat.  Almost as though he had been composed to be the first male Slayer.  The sort of innate cunning that was only recognized when one was put to the ultimate test.  

Watching him it was difficult believe that he hadn't been doing this longer than seven years.  His technique was almost as good as Spike's, and that was something that the vampire refused to take lightly.

But that didn't mean he was going to buy the wanker drinks.

Wright had set and aimed to kill the last when it suddenly imploded into a flurry of dusty bits.  A scowl immediately beset his features, especially when he pinpointed the cause.

"That wasn't fair," he complained.

Spike grinned at him unabashedly.  "Life isn' fair, Zangy."

"I'm so not rewarding you for stealing my kill."

"Oh, you're a welcher, then?"  The peroxide vampire shrugged as though the knowledge was of no consequence.  "Right then.  I can live with that 'f you can."

"I am _not _a welcher."

"Well, you wanna pick the pub, or should I?"

The man rolled his eyes.  "I might not be a welcher, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid.  I'm not buying your drinks, Bloody.  Not for that.  Deal with it."

Spike arched a brow.  "Bloody?"

"You know…'William the Bloody.'"

"Not very original."

"Don't like it?  Stop calling me Zangy."

"Not on your—"

A horrible, overly dramatic growl sliced through the Cockney's dialogue before he could reach the thought to completion.  Immediately, both men reverted to attention, whirling in time to see the launch of a random vamp that had somehow escaped their notice.  It took that for Spike to realize he had consigned his stake to the last he dusted, and though Zack was quick and had better aim than he would ever admit vocally, the approach was too hasty and arbitrary to make any estimates that might score as accurate.    

But then something happened.

Something very, very unexpected.

The vampire exploded in an array of surprise and cunning that Spike had only previously allowed concession to the true professionals.  It was so unexpected that he nearly swore the dust shimmered with a variety of different hues, even if that marked his own eccentricity, and was—not to mention—impossible.

It took several seconds to register that the true bombshell wasn't the sudden end of their equally haphazard attacker.

It was the source of his demise.    

A small girl with dirtied blonde hair, holding a model of what looked to be the same brand of Wesley's handheld crossbow.  The girl, and the woman behind her.  

There was nothing for a long minute.  Spike just stared.

He knew those eyes.  

And it stunned him into breathtaking submission.

"What…" he breathed, unaware that he was panting.  "What the hell is—"

"Nikki!" someone called in an unfamiliar tenor.  It took seconds to realize that the sound had emanated from the hunter at his side, and a foreign, nearly parental expression had crossed his features sternly.  The universal forewarning that someone was in very big trouble.  "Where the _fuck _have you been?"

The young blonde spitfire that was all too familiar for eyes shrugged dissonantly, though her countenance was not nearly as cold as she was trying to stem. "Well, if you had bothered to _call _to tell us where _you_ were, you might've found that we've been sitting ducks for the past day and a half.  Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"  She gestured to the child at her side.  "And don't use that kind of language in front of her!"

"It's okay," the girl replied.  "I've heard it before."

"That doesn't make it all right, sweetie."  

That seemed to ebb Wright even further.  "Stop parenting—"

"Well, I'm _sorry.  _If I don't, who will?"

"And what a _fantastic _job you're doing.  It's almost one in the morning!  She should be in bed!"  The hunter broke into a pace; having seemingly forgotten that he was in the audience of a very confused vampire.  The same who could do nothing but stare blankly and hope that everything eventually made some form of sense.  Wright, meanwhile, had paraded forward intently, eyes blazing.  "You take her out like this again, and I'm going to—"

Nikki arched a brow.  "What?  No really, let's hear it.  Drop your little righteous mission?  Actually try to be a father for once?  Be home at night to tuck her into bed and read her actual bedtime stories?  Any of these sound good, or am I speaking a foreign language?"  Without awaiting a reply, she glanced over his shoulder and gestured broadly to the nearly-forgotten and certainly-dumbfound bystander.  "And when did we start associating with vampires?  Huh?  Especially ones that—"

"Spike?"

It was the first word to come from the child's mouth, and it took that for the peroxide Cockney to realize that she had been staring at him the entire time.  His attention averted sharply.  The girl.  The girl.  The same girl from the alley.

This wasn't…it couldn't be…

"Yeh," he replied with a weak, still bewildered grin.  

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Wright abandoned his spat with the young woman without prompt and paraded intently to his unlikely companion.  "What the hell is this?  How do you know—"

"He saved us," the girl responded, her eyes not leaving Spike's.  Small captivating orbs of knowledge.  He knew he was lost without having to formally concede defeat.  "He saved us from the Kraelek the other night."

"Not _saved," _Nikki objected in a huff.  "I would've taken care of it."

"Enough!" The peroxide vampire threw his hands in the air.  God, the alley was spinning.  "Will somebody please tell me what the _bloody fuck _is going on?!"  He paused shortly thereafter and glanced once more to the child, wincing slightly.  "Sorry."

"It's okay," she assured him.

Zack sighed and placed his hands on the girl's shoulders, holding her to him protectively.  "Fine.  Why do I even bother to try and keep you two out of danger?  You practically go on a danger scavenger hunt!" There was a moment's pause as he cleared his head and redirected his attention with some semblance of formality. "Spike, this is Rosalie Melody Wright," he said.  "My daughter."

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty: _Purple Skies_…**


	21. Purple Skies

**A/N:** Am having formatting difficulties.  Bear with me.****

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**Chapter Twenty**

**Purple Skies**

They found the Hyperion virtually deserted when they arrived that night, and it was no wonder why.  It was nearly two thirty in the morning; and while the city certainly buzzed with action, the staff of its salvation couldn't afford to run while the gas tank was on empty.  

"They really must trust you," Zack commented, coming down the stairs.  "Leaving you with Angel's digs alone?"

The vampire glanced up.  "'m not alone.  Got you an' your merry band, don' I?"  His eyes dropped to a hastily scribbled letter from Cordelia that welcomed him to all the blood in the fridge (apparently she had restocked) and that she wouldn't expect money back. This time.  He chuckled in spite of himself and poured a glass of crimson goodness.  "Though I guess trustin' you wouldn't be in the best interest, either."

Wright sighed his exasperation and ran his hands through his hair.  "Look, would _you _have told you?  Especially with what you know about what happened to us?"

"I wouldn't hurt your Bits, Zangy."

"Yeah, I know that.  Now."  He shook his head and sank with exhaustion into one of the plush couches in the foyer.  "So, you helped them?"

Spike snickered and took a deep swig of blood.  They had eluded the formality of explanation in the alley of his motel room for a reason.  The child needed sleep, it was getting later than any of them reckoned was appropriate, and Nikki had tossed in the strains of her own fatigue.  There had been very little exchanged on the way back-mostly by Rosie, who was very childishly trying to prove that she wasn't sleepy.  She sat curled in her father's lap, asking the vampire various questions pertaining to who he was and, more importantly, his past.  Some of what she asked was so above and beyond the telling signs of her biological age that he had to stop and remind herself that she had yet to blossom into adulthood.  Other questions, however, bordered on adorably ridiculous.

Though he would never admit that.

"On the way to Caritas," he replied, hoisting himself onto the counter.  "Cordy got snagged by one of her wonder-visions.  Took us to some ruddy alley where your girlies were battlin' a big nasty."  He stopped and shook his head with a slight chuckle.  "Nikki's a bloody pistol."

Wright nodded.  "Yes, she really is."

"Who is she?"  The vampire took another long sip of his blood, head cocked to the side curiously.  "'m guessin' she's not your-"

"No!" The widening of the other man's eyes in fervent protest was so extreme that it nearly stood as comical.  "Good _God _no.  Nikki - she's my sister-in-law.  After Amber - after _that_ happened, I needed someone to watch Rosie.  She learned everything I learned.  She's been with me from the beginning."

Spike arched a brow.  "You let her tag along?"

"I wasn't about to let my daughter out of my sight.  Not after what had happened."

"Bit looks like she can take care of herself."  He chuckled again.  "Even 'f she is a tiny person.  How old is she?"

"She'll be nine soon."

Spike nodded thoughtfully.  "Older than I thought.  She's small for her age."

Wright offered a poignant smile.  "Takes after her mother in that."  He sighed and leaned back.  "Rosie's been through more than her fair share.  I know she doesn't deserve a lot of what I've made her do or learn.  Some of what she does, she's picked up along the way.  Other stuff, Nikki or I have taught her.  Made her learn - in case something happened to one of us."

"No wonder she's so bloody mature for her age." 

"Oh, she's always been like that.  She's always known things.  It used to scare the piss outta me."  Zack shook his head ruefully.  "Now I can't.she.she's very gifted.  More so than I reckon even I've credited.  She's knows when things happen.  Always has."

There was a long pause.

"Bit's a seer?  'S that what you're sayin'?"

Zack shrugged.  "If you wanna call it that, I guess.  I'm not sure how Cordy handles it, but Rosie - it's not so much _seeing_ things as _knowing _things.  On the few nights that we're actually together, she'll be talking about something she saw or read or something to that effect and stop suddenly to tell me that the phone's about to ring or a glass is going to fall. Little things like that."

The vampire was silent for a long minute.  "All right. Li'l creepy."

"You're telling me.  Amber and I used to not know what to do with her.  Once she started talking. It was like an adult trapped in a child's body."  He shook his head wanly.  "She knows too much for being as old as she is."

"She how you knew Darla was here?"

The question was unneeded; silence spoke for all just as well.  Wright glanced off dazedly, and nodded to the best of his ability.  "Yeah," he said.  "We were in Vegas - well, we were leaving Vegas.  There was some." He trailed off with a frown.  "I don't know the technical jargon for demons, but this one liked lights.  It liked lights in a way that should be illegal in forty-seven states.  And you know Vegas.."

Spike snickered.

"Well, we were leaving and Rosie just sort've blanked.  And she said, very calmly, that Darla was in Los Angeles.  Just like that.  'Daddy, Darla's in Los Angeles.'"  He exhaled deeply.  "I'm not even sure if she knows who Darla is, really.  She'll say things like that all the time.  'Frank bought a new car,' 'Paullina got her hair done today,' 'Darla's in Los Angeles.'  I'm sure there's a reason for everything, but I follow leads.  Real, firm leads.  I've already fucked Rosie's life up enough to drag her into it any further. After Amber was murdered, I shutdown.  I turned all my attention to finding Darla and just lost myself.  Rosie's probably the only reason I maintained anything."  Wright sighed longingly, squeezing his eyes shut.  "I don't even know if I'm the type of person that Amber would love anymore."

The vampire shrugged.  "You've dedicated yourself to somethin' you believe in."

"For the right reasons?"

There was a long beat at that.  Spike shifted slightly and reached for his cigarettes, ignoring the unspoken implication that there was no smoking in the Hyperion.  He lit up and inhaled appreciatively, brow furrowed in consideration.  "Way I see it," he said, "there's no 'right reason' for anythin'.  Why should it matter _why _you're doin' somethin' so long as you're doin' it?"

"So says the vampire."

"Yeh, so says the bloody vampire.  I might never get why I started 'avin' all these soddin' touchy feelies.  An' 'f I get - _when_ I get Buffy back, she might never know why, either.  Rupert an' the soddin' brigade of white hats'll never understand why I'm here."  He shook his head and tapped the end of the fag lightly.  "Don' see why it matters.  I don' have the wirin' to do the right thing.  The fact that 'm makin' an honest effort at it should be more than enough."

Zack snickered.  "Yeah.  Enough for _you.  _I'm supposed to be above it.  I guess that went away at some point."  

"You fancy a spot of violence, Zangy.  There's nothin' wrong with that."

"There is when I neglect my daughter."  There was a long beat of silence as he gazed off in thought. "Nikki's great, don't get me wrong.  She's been with me from the beginning. _Wanted_ to learn everything I learned.  Wanted to.she loved her sister, and she.despite all the changes she's gone through, she's still so much like Amber sometimes that I can't breathe.  And Rosie. I never wanted to become one of those parents who can't look at their child because it reminds them of someone they lost.  Rosie, though.she's like her mother incarnate.  People say that she has my eyes, but I don't see it.  I can't see myself anywhere on her.  All I see is her."

"I get that, mate."

"I just can't stop.  I've dragged Rosie this far and she's a hell of a sport about it.  She's never complained.  Never really, never been any trouble at all.  Even when she was really little."  He sighed and shook his head again.  "But she deserves more than this."

Spike cocked his head to the side, indulging another puff on his cigarette.  "You ever reckon maybe she was made for it?" he suggested gently.  "Sure seems like you were, whether or not you wanna admit it."

"What?  You mean like a Slayer?"

"No.  God, I hope not.  With ugly beasties out there who spend their lives huntin' an' killin' Slayers?  Creatures like-"

"You?"

The vampire snorted inarticulately, but nodded all the same.  "Yeh.  Once upon a time.  Never fancied I'd ever change.  Slayers are a nasty business, Zangy.  They live, they fight a while, then some muck like me comes an' ends it all for 'em.  I've seen the end of two.  Can't say I'm sorry, 'cause really, I'm not.  Not like I oughta be, anyway."  Spike paused meaningfully and glanced upward.  "'F I never know another Slayer again, it'll be too bloody soon.  Your Bit. I'd never hope that for her."  He glanced up.  "Means more of the same for you."

Zack shrugged.  "Always has.  What I do, I'm too deep in to stop. Even for her."

There was a pause.  "Many ways to raise a kid, way I figure it.  I've been all over the world, mate.  Ruined my fair share of happy homes an' the like.  Done things I wish I could regret."  He sighed.  "Don' know 'f that means anythin' - wishin' I could regret it."

"I think it means you do, on a level.  You regret not regretting, and therefore regret."

Spike smiled wanly.  "You a philosopher, now, or jus' specialize in therapy for the undead?"

"You're beyond therapy."

The vampire chuckled and raised his bloodglass at that.  "'ll drink to that."  He finished off his makeshift supper and wiped his mouth.  "Bit's got potential," he murmured a minute later.  "Real potential."

"We made sure of that.  In my line of work, I wasn't going to let her be in the face in danger every day and not know how to defend herself."  Zack sighed longingly.  "Amber wouldn't have wanted this for her."

Spike arched a brow.  "Even 'f it had been the other way around?"

"Especially if it had been the other way around.  She would've been above it."

"I don' see how what you're doin' is below it."

"And again, we're back to the 'you wouldn't.'"

"Yeh.  I wouldn't.  Jus' 'cause I'm a vamp doesn' mean everythin' I say an' think's immediately an' completely buggered."  He shook his head, billowing out a pillar of smoke.  "You've jus' met the worse of us."

Zack's eyes narrowed.  "I didn't realize there was a 'best'."

"See?  That's what 'm talkin' about."

"Spike, you're the first vampire I've met who has any earthly ambitions that aren't one hundred percent selfish."  He held up a hand.  "And I'm still trying to figure you out."

The Cockney gestured broadly to himself.  "Not much to figure out, mate."

"Yes, there is."  The conviction behind the hunter's tone caused the vampire to stop and consider him, realizing what was being offered.  That blessed leeway that had previously been denied.  That acceptance.  That want of trust, even if they hadn't made it that far.  The previous sentiment that had been determined just the night before that they could never be friends questioned by the man himself.  With a self-conscious chuckle, Wright glanced down, studying the contours of his hands.  "You're a strange guy.  I don't want to believe anything that you say and I don't want to - you're a vampire.  You're the reason my life's the way it is.  Not _you _per se, but your kind.  I've hated vampires for so long.  Not demons, _vampires.  _For what you are.  For what you do, or have done.  And now you're all with the noble 'save the woman you love' crusade."

"'S not a crime to not hate me, Zangy."

"I feel like it should be."

Spike sighed.  "Well, I feel like I should rightly be staked for what I've turned myself into.  For startin' to feel again.  For lovin' her like I do.  An' 's not jus' her.  When I saw your kid in the alley bein' attacked by that big nasty, and I - I felt for her.  An' tha's not right.  Not from where I'm standin'.  I'm not s'posed to feel.  Not for humanly types, not for younglin's, an' certainly not for Slayers."

Wright nodded as though he understood, but the vampire didn't see how that was possible.  "Well," he decided after a minute.  "For what it's worth, I'm glad you do."

There was a brief pause at that, and the peroxide blonde smiled.  "Yeh," he agreed.  "Me, too."

Their eyes met at that, and they exchanged a concise, however heartfelt grin of mutuality. After so much pain, there was a limit on how much a person could offer.  Spike knew this all too well, and would not take it lightly.  He didn't know if this was in his benefit or not.  If it was for Buffy or to ease the pain of a man he should feel no obligation to, but did anyway.

At some point, it had ceased to matter. 

*~*~*

It wasn't the most nutritional breakfast in the world, but there were some sacrifices every parent must make.  Especially a parent living on Zack Wright's income.  The past few years had seen a tradition of fine dining at whatever local fast food chain was available, and because of the readily low prices (not to mention quality) everyone in his crowd was more than accustomed to McDonalds.

He had left the Hyperion before sunrise alongside Spike, who was too ancy to wait the duration of another day without making the first leap into Wolfram and Hart.  They had taken the back alleys in case the sun decided to show up early for any reason, and Wright had spotted the vampire one Egg McMuffin that he demanded compensation on whenever they saw each other again.  Spike had chuckled, waved his farewell, and disappeared before he could call him on it.

When he arrived back at the hotel, Nikki and Rosie were awake.  That did not surprise him.  Over the years, they had all adapted to the radical hours that a vampire hunter obliged in nature.  

They ate in companionable silence, occasionally commenting on something marking notes in the obscure nature.  All else besides, Nikki was still on the side of uncomfortable when it came to their newfound association with a vampire.  She asked him half a dozen times if he knew what he was doing.  What he was getting himself into, and wasn't satisfied even when the child vouched her confidence.

"Spike's a good guy," Rosie supplied, munching on a hashbrown.  She didn't say anything more, but it was enough to convince her father once and for all.  If the years had taught him anything, it was that his daughter's senses ranged beyond impeccable.  Her unspoken blessing solidified all remaining doubts.

It didn't surprise him when Nikki failed to bend that easily.  After Amber's death, she had retreated within herself almost more than he had.  Her bloodlust was nearly as pure, if not as refined.  She hated all things of a subhuman nature, and nothing short of God's decree would alter her perception.

The first few years, Zack had questioned the wisdom of dragging her along with him.  It was dangerous enough having a daughter that he refused to leave in the care of his parents.  His parents whom had never supported his marriage, and Amber's weren't any better.  Despite their palpable love for their grandchild, he would rather have cut off his ear than leave her for what could be years at a time.

Nikki's presence, while at times problematic, had served to solve the issue surrounding what to do with his daughter when he was out on business.  Following some nameless lead.  The young woman could never have filled Amber's shoes-not as a partner nor as a mother to Rosie, and she had never tried.  But she was good for them.  And she had learned the tools of the trade with more enthusiasm than he ever could have wagered.

"I still don't see why he won't just kill everyone once he gets there and have it over with," she mused.

Wright quirked a brow, chewing thoughtfully. "It's more complicated than that."

"Is it really?  Please tell me how."

"These aren't run of the mill vamps, Nick."

"Yeah, and neither is he, right?  He's one of them."

Zack frowned.  "Not anymore."

"God, would you listen to yourself?  You've turned into one of _them_." She shook her head with a heavy sigh, poking erratically at her food.  "You were gone for, what?  A day?  Two days?  What happened?  What could have _possibly _happened that-"

"I've gotten to know him.  All of them.  They're good people."

"Vampires aren't _people, _Zack."

"Spike's the only vamp in this lot."

"All the same."  

"You said yourself that he helped you the other night when he didn't have to."

Her eyes narrowed skeptically.  "And that, what?  Makes it all right?  Atones for all the other people he's killed?  Jesus Christ, what's happened to you?  They brainwash you?  Put you under some crazy empathy spell?  Make it so-"

"Daddy's right," Rosie volunteered softly.  "This one's different from the others."

Nikki's gaze didn't falter.  If anything, she furrowed with deeper disgust.  "And you've dragged your daughter into it, too."

"Dragged her into?  I haven't even seen her all week!  I've been tearing this town apart looking for Darla.  _And_ you two!  Spike was a lucky break."

"And you're just gonna let him walk after all this is over?"

At that, Wright was quieted.  He had nothing to say.

"Oh my God, you are, aren't you?"

"Calm down."

"I will _not _calm down!  This is crazy!  You, being like this." Nikki threw her arms into the air, jumping to her feet in full display of her discontent.  "He's one of them, Zack.  He's killed people just like Amber.  And you're gonna let him get away with it."

"And what do you know about vamps, Nick?  They kill because they like it.  Because they don't _feel.  _Because the kill to them is more important than everything else."  He shook his head in disgust.  "You know what I taught you.  You think this is any fun for me?  I know what he is.  I know what he's done.  I've fucking memorized every kill documented in history, and it makes my insides turn to think of everything that _didn't_ make the books.  But what I've seen of him these past couple days defies _everything _I've ever read up on him.  On _vampires.  _He's in love with this chick."

"That shouldn't matter!"

"Well, it does!"  

Rosie's eyes went wide.  It had been a long while since she saw them fight like this.  "Daddy."

Neither heard her, or registered the comment enough to turn.  They were both on their feet now-shooting each other virtually identical looks that measured the same thing as far as reasonability.  

"You've lost it," Nikki decided.  "This guy's not you, Zack."

"I fucking know it."

"And this girl, whoever she is, isn't Amber.  Saving her's not going to bring Amber back."

"That doesn't mean she doesn't deserve a chance to live.   That doesn't mean we can fucking _leave _her there in the hands of the _things _that did to us what they'll do to her."  

Nikki's eyes blazed with anger.  There was no talking her out of it.  No stepping back.  "This isn't about her at all!" she screamed.  "Not to you!  It never was!  You look at your new best friend, all you see is yourself.  Amber's _dead, _Zack.  She's _fucking _dead and if you let yourself turn into one of them, you might as well have killed her yourself."

A very long, very cold silence swept through the lobby of Hyperion.  An arctic storm behind Wright's eyes-cutting and piercing as though he was gazing upon a stranger.  His fists clenched tightly as though trying to prevent himself from throttling her.  From hitting her.  From doing _anything._

It was the wail at first-the piercing scream of a child before Rosie fled from the room.  That shook him out of his stupor.  With the dying whimper of his daughter tickling the air, shivers sprouting up and down his arms, he knew no other truth.  The impact of purified rage too strong to see any other means of understanding. "Get." he said slowly.  "Get out of my sight, Nikki.  Now."

The girl stood resolute for a few seconds before her emotions got the better of her.  Before he could blink at the tears threatening to burst, she had turned and raced for the stairs.

Zack closed his eyes and hissed out a long, overdrawn breath, hands going instinctually to his head to ward off an impending headache.  He pivoted without thought and returned to the table where the lingering smell of processed food still haunted the lobby.  He was too forgone within himself to notice the hint of an audience.

"Wow," Cordelia said from the entrance, still slightly wide-eyed.  "I take it that I _really _missed something."

At that, he sighed once more and glanced up with a hint of a smile on his face.  "Morning, Cordy."

She returned the smile and walked in slowly.  "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

She pursed her lips and nodded.  "Well, I'll let it slide, then.  For now!  'Cause, buddy, I totally need details later."  A pause.  "Hey, was that the girl that-"

"You and the others helped the other night?  Yeah."

"Okay.  I _really _missed something then."

"I'll fill you in later."  Zack glanced up, smiling gently.  "So, how was your night?"

*~*~*

Lindsey froze over his work when the door to his office opened.  He knew who it was without awaiting confirmation.  Without needing anything to support the contrary.  And everything he had been working toward fell flat without a glance at the repercussions.  They hadn't even bothered to inform him that an untamed-not to mention unapproved-vampire was in the building.

Things were getting worse by the minute.

"What can I say?" Spike said in manner of greeting, leaning against the doorway.  He was grinning as though his words were highly significant.  "Couldn't wait."

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-One: _The False Prophet_. **


	22. The False Prophet

**Chapter Twenty-One**

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**The False Prophet**

It was a strange feeling.  

The streets were populated with people.  All sorts of people.  Young, old, tall, short, fat, thin, it didn't matter.  They were people.  They were humans.  They were everything he was supposed to hate.  Everything he was supposed to resent; everything he was supposed to discard after having drained them dry.  After referring to their vitals for his ever-important meal ticket.

He could have one now.  He could have a thousand.  The chip was gone.  It was gone, and he could have whomever he wanted.

And yet.

The procedure had ended an hour ago - there had, apparently, been a lot of paperwork to go through.  Medical releases, completely bogus questionnaires, inquiries to his family's history.  Spike had the nagging suspicion that most had served as more means of distraction while McDonald searched for a loophole that would prevent the surgery altogether.  There weren't many absolutes that the peroxide vampire could be sure of anymore, but he did know that, within the first few minutes, Lindsey McDonald was _not _his number one fan.  He had absolutely no want to have him anywhere near Wolfram and Hart, and while he refrained from shouting that from the rooftops, it remained more than palpable.

Curious.

The position he had assumed was a dangerous one; he didn't realize how deep he had allowed himself to venture until noting that - quite possibly - from here on out he would be facing the rest alone.  While Zack, Cordelia, and the others would remain true to their word, bringing them in now had the potential to jeopardize everything.  

Lindsey's aversion to him was enchanting.  Though Spike didn't usually take to people who refused to find him positively delightful or bloody terrifying, the repugnance he sensed from the man was something different altogether.  It wasn't that he didn't like him for the sake of crowding the offices or a quibble along that regard; more that he was hesitant to live up to his own contract.  To bring the Order together.

The man did not care for the way things were going.  That much was obvious.

Angelus had big plans for the evening, and that made Spike nervous.  It was a bizarre feeling, despite the year of practice tied in with innate preparation.  Temptation at its blessed fullest.  It was hard enough resisting the urge to act out the full potential of his demonhood without tangible restriction; flaunting what he craved, and would always crave, while keeping it out of hindsight was as close to bona fide torture as the vampire ever wanted to come.

He had given his word, and that was something he refused to take lightly.  Too much depended on restraint.  Buffy's trust, Wright's friendship, and the continued support from his newfound colleagues at Angel Investigations.  So much on the foundation that he would be a good little boy and play by the rules.

It was against his nature.

Every step thus far had been against his nature.

There was also that pesky little voice that warned him of his overly interested conscience.  That was also a bother.

It was intimidating - carrying so much weight on shoulders that were not only accustomed to dropping their burden at whatever convenient location, but also rolling around in the carnage such tomfoolery cost.  Being responsible was something he had never fancied for himself.

And yet here he was.  

Spike discovered quickly that there was little one could do in this city that Wolfram and Hart wouldn't ultimately know about.  There was much he wanted to share with his associates, but he didn't dare risk the trip across town to relate what the evening according to Angelus would entail.  He knew he was going to be expected to kill.  He knew he was going to be surveyed like he had never been surveyed before.  He knew that whatever he did had to look authentic.  Genuine enough to fool one of the most notorious vampires in documented history.

There would be real blood spilt tonight.  

The vampire decided the best course of action would be through Caritas.  It was the perfect middle-point, and Lorne would be sure that Wright received whatever forwarded message he needed to relay.  It was close enough to Wolfram and Hart to mark notes in convenience and elude suspicion, but far enough to range beyond the prying eyes of those who might be interested in leaking his duplicity to the family.

Spike wanted to avoid his unfortunate blood ties as long as possible.  While remaining within the boundaries of Wolfram and Hart was something of a given, he couldn't stand the idea of being confined to a lot that didn't particularly care for him.  He roamed as much as he could, delivered the goods to the Host along with his message, and made several rounds of the law offices.  Angelus had yet to mention the Slayer, which failed to surprise.  When and if Buffy was ever introduced to the picture, it would be far after he had completely regained their confidence.

However, the peroxide Cockney wasn't willing to wait that long.  He wasn't willing to wait at all.

There were other things.  Drusilla had expressed an interest in renewing their relationship as soon as possible - n the all out physical sense.  Daddy and grandmummy hadn't seen to her as they used to, she claimed.  Daddy was once again aspiring to a level where all he saw was Darla.  All he saw, touched, and inhaled was Darla.  Darla Darla Darla.

Funny.  When Spike saw his great grandsire again, he had to fight the urge to stake her.  Out of loyalty.

Loyalty.

To a human.  

There was more than something wrong with that picture.

The platinum vampire resolved himself to elude his former princess's advances as long as possible, but he understood that he might become cornered.  If he was too forceful in his refusal, suspicions were going to arise.  And it wasn't that Spike hadn't been known to indulge in the sins of the flesh - rather he was _very_known for it.  There was no clause that suggested he needed to be faithful to Buffy.  There was not a relationship there to taint with infidelity.  He had used Harmony for more of the same.

He didn't want to shag Dru.  He didn't want to use the face of a woman he had loved in order to save the one that now held his affections.  For whatever reason, it seemed wrong.

Wrong.  That was a word that had radically changed definition in his personalized vocabulary over the past year.  What was worse, he didn't know who it would be wrong against.  Using Drusilla didn't bother him, per se.  She hadn't been the picture of faithfulness during their discourse.  No, he felt he would be betraying Buffy, even if it made no earthly sense.

Betrayal.  Betrayal was virtually palpable with every step indulged within Wolfram and Hart.  Betrayal from a thousand different sources.  The walls practically bled with it.  With every file exchanged, every conversation by proverbial water coolers, every look flashed in every direction, that much more was betrayed.  That much more was given away.  Sealed.  Stamped.  Shut.  Over with.

He had to find her.  He was here now.  He had reached his destination, and patience was running on empty.

He _had _to find her.

It was amazing what a man could find to miss.  The past few days - weeks - however long it had been, had schooled him effectively into categorizing everything that he had not experienced since he last saw her.  The icy looks.  The irritated tones.  The empty threats that followed the not-so-empty punches.  Romancing the bloody stone.  And then, there was the rest.  The way she laughed with him when she thought he wouldn't notice.  The way they patrolled and chatted comfortably when no one else was around.  The way she could open up just a bit - allow herself to become that much more human.

The scent of her tears against the cold night air.  The shiver of her skin beneath his touch.  The way he could frighten her without threats, even if she would never admit it.  The way she could match him - word for word, move for move, in anything he did.  Her butchering of the English language.  Her liking for petty clichés.  The vanity she had depended on since adolescence; how he enjoyed watching it blossom and fluster within the same respective beat.  The hint of her mother's perfume in the air, even if she used it sparingly.  How she dropped her shoulder in battle without realizing it, and never in turn lost the upper hand.

How she could be so cold.  So distant.  So perfect.  So completely not his, and make him not even care.

Much.

It had been too long, and he missed her.

He missed her for all her faults.  For all her mistreatments and admittedly numbered failings.  For all her Buffyness in the sense that was not always entirely flattering.  She could kill with a look and still be glorious.  Her warmth could melt the iceman's heart if he was at the receiving end.  The way she cared and tried.  The way she simply was.

He missed her.

Before this had happened, they had been on the road to something.  Not friendship - not completely.  But something beyond the revulsion that mapped everyday existence.  It was more than he would have ever expected to grasp without outward acknowledgement.  She had saved his life more times than he could count, and he had returned the favor in mutual respect even if she never noticed.  

He missed the way she made him human.  She had started it, after all.  She was the ultimate inspiration for being.

And he missed her.

The lower foundation of Wolfram and Hart upheld the reputation the rest of its stature had maintained.  While offices were situated on a level that seemed to personify prestige and elegance, there was always the hidden understanding that skillfully underlined all transactions.  It was more blunt.  Truthful.  The real espionage of human affairs.  He had the distinct feeling that his presence rang on the side of unwelcome, perhaps even prohibited, but such tidings had never kept him from exploiting all aspects of human frailty before.

If Angelus or the others knew where he was, he knew they would not like it.  

Spike had never doubted the probability of finding Buffy within the Wolfram and Hart offices.  He knew while she was still alive, the lawyers contracting her wouldn't allow their dealings on such a profitable manner to be taken outside the boundaries of comfort.  And knowing that she was in the hands of Angelus and his girls singled out the likelihood of finding her anywhere but the lower levels of the edifice.   His grandsire had a liking for large, open and assuredly dark spaces.  He would want the traditionalism of a good old-fashioned torture.  He would want to make it as nineteenth century as possible while incorporating all the luxuries that modern technology had allotted.  

He would want it all.

The peroxide vampire had no delusions of heroism.  Not now.  With his head still aching from the chip's removal and no feasibility in smuggling the Slayer to safety while the place crawled with personnel and others that were, while not fully behind the recent changes, loyal to the innate chaos that Wolfram and Hart represented.  When they got her out, it would assuredly be a team effort.  An infiltration that would ensure as much support as possible, even if - by his standards - there could never be enough.

Spike wished it otherwise.  The last thing he wanted was to overcrowd her, but there were no other options.  Not with the path they had selected for approach.

The bowels of Wolfram and Hart potentially stretched for miles.  There was no way to explore to satisfaction without arousing suspicion of the others.  Especially with his reemergence so young.  So distrusted.  So...supervised.

They wouldn't even tell him about Buffy.  That she was alive.  How she had allegedly kicked it.  Anything.  She hadn't been mentioned, and he would be damned before he jeopardized her and brought up the ordeal himself.

His manhunt would have to be postponed.  It was nearing time for departure.  

Mustn't keep an eager audience waiting.

The platinum Cockney was ready to turn and head back to the surface when the scent hit him.  It was faint, nearly imperceptible, and so forgone that he originally suspected his overly-anxious mind was playing tricks on him.  But no.  It was there.  Very pale.  Nearly nonexistent.  

But real.  It was real.

An overwhelming sensation.  Spike found himself flooded with an unexpected wave of emotion - such that he nearly choked on tears that sprouted from nowhere.  Finally.  Within the strain of tangibility.  Oh God.  And there again.  The mix of dirt, blood, the salty essence of skin...everything that made her Buffy.  His Slayer.  What he had and would cross oceans for.  The very same that had brought him here - to his personalized inferno.  Everything.  The vampire choked pitifully, following his footing without realizing it.  Following the corridor as far as her scent would carry him.

Followed until he encountered a barrier.  A door.

Buffy was on the other side of that door.

And he had run out of time.

The larger part of him wanted to blow it off.  Sod the entire plan and all that bloody rot.  He had found her - in essence, he had found her.  She was on the other side of that door, waiting for him.  He wanted to race in, take her into his arms, and get the fuck out of Dodge.  Now.  

But the smaller, more reasonable voice within forewarned that it could never be that easy.  He would be staked dead before reaching the first floor - if not by Angelus or one of his own, then most assuredly by a Wolfram and Hart associate.

Spike sputtered an indignant sob at that, irritated by the hint of tears that still blinded his gaze.  It wasn't fair.  It wasn't fair to be here, to be standing with only a door between them.  To be drawn back because it was in accordance to some preordained arrangement.  He needed her now.  He needed to look at her, touch her, feel her...now.

To do so now would risk everything, and not on the kind of odds he liked to wager.

A touch.  One.  The vampire lifted his hand to caress the rough exterior of the door.  The unwanted barrier keeping him from his purpose.  His reason for being.  His ladylove, even if it remained entirely unrequited for the rest of her days.  His eyes drifted shut without realizing it, as though to absorb the promise of heat and life that was concealed from hindsight.  It was as damn close to torture as he cared to get when he pulled away, gazing at the obstruction longingly.  As long as he could watch it.

"Hang on, luv," he whispered, his voice echoing with haunting reverberation to the halls around him.  "I'll be back."

And he would.  He would be back.  Sooner rather than later.

Spike always kept his word.  And nothing short of a stake to the heart could keep him away now.

*~*~*

"Yeah, thanks."

Cordelia hung up the phone and collapsed tiredly against the front counter, burying her head in her arms.  The motion was enough to cause Wesley to glance up from his reading; the slowly-becoming-ritualistic perusal of every convenient newspaper to see if Angelus was indulging in patterned hunting routines.  Thus far, all inquiries had resulted in a big negative, but it was always better to keep busy.  "Good news?" he asked.

"Oh yeah.  The best."  She sighed and shook her head.  "We gotta get Zack on this, stat."

The man in question bounded down the Hyperion staircase as though reacting to a well-timed cue.  "Gotta get Zack in on what?"

"The Host just called.  Apparently, Spike has to go hunting tonight."

A perceptible shadow crossed Wright's face.  There was notably nothing about that sentence that he liked.  "Hunting?" he demanded.  

"Every bit as 'bite the humans' as it sounds."

"So his chip is out?"

"Out, and our resident vampire has himself a new set of teeth that are just hankerin' for the chomping."  Cordelia sighed again, leveling her gaze with the demon hunter meaningfully.  "I don't think we have anything to worry about," she reassured him.  "I mean, before Wolfram and Hart decided to get soul-happy, he was probably the last person in the world that I would trust, but-"

"Why is that?" 

She glanced up again without realizing her gaze had fallen again to the desk.  "Oh.  Because the last time I saw Spike, he was sticking hot pokers into Angel.  Trying to get some gem.  The...ring...I think...the..."

"Gem of Amara?" Wesley offered helpfully.

"Yup.  That's the one."

"It exists?  Dear me, I hadn't thought-"

Zack held up a hand and the former Watcher immediately fell silent.  "So," he ventured, "Spike's new leaf didn't turn until...recently, is what you're saying."

"Way recently," Cordelia agreed.  "But he's completely different from the vamp he was in the way back when.  I didn't even know him all that well, to be perfectly honest.  Not when he was all 'kill Buffyish'.  I just knew that he was there, had some psycho girlfriend, and now he's one of us."

"You trust him."  It was more an observation than anything else.

At that, the young woman paused with a frown as she considered.  In all honesty, the thought hadn't occurred to her.  Not in the fullest sense.  It wasn't something that someone randomly shouted from the rooftops.  The willful change of everything she had come to accept.  That seemed to be happening a lot lately.  "Yeah," she finally said.  "I do.  I guess it's a little premature, but since he's been here, he's really...well, not been Spike."

"And you don't think it's an act?"

"Honey, I'm an actress.  I'd _know _it if it was an act."

Wesley coughed something indistinguishable.  He wisely ignored the look he earned in turn.

The irritation on the brunette's face was palpable, but didn't last long.  She was too immersed in studying the reactions playing in glorious conflict behind Wright's eyes.  A thousand different feelings for one simplified being. "You're not suddenly thinking Spike's not one of us, are you?"

Zack glanced up.  "No," he said.  "No, it's not that.  I've...for reasons beyond me, Spike and I...we've come to an understanding."

Cordelia nodded.  "You've...become friends?"

"I wouldn't say that," he hastily amended.  "I just-"

"You know, it's okay if you have.  He's a pretty cool guy, once you get passed the retro 'Oh dear God, did someone trap me in the 80s' look."  She smiled affectionately.  "You wouldn't be the first to warm up to a vamp.  Trust me.  Been there, most definitely done that."

A still air quieted him.  It didn't last long, but long enough for Cordelia to realize she had brushed a particularly sore spot.  "I..." he said softly.  "I don't befriend vamps.  Doesn't matter about the...conditions."

Wesley made a noise of understanding, even remembrance.  That only served to irritate.

"Don't go getting righteous on me," Wright snapped at the other man.  "You don't know the half of it."

The Watcher looked affronted, and his hands came up in semblance of diplomacy.  "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."  He shook his head and combed pathways through browned hair.  "God...the sooner this is over, the better.  What did the Host say?  Anything he wants us to do in particular?"

"Yeah." Cordelia glanced down, unwilling to concede defeat that easily.  Whatever Wright was hiding would be out eventually; it had to.  If not only to satisfy her curiosity, to help put whatever haunted him still behind him.  Scars hurt - she knew this as well as anyone else, but picking at the scabs didn't do a damn thing to help.  It just made the wound bleed more while denying it any chance to heal.  "Spike's said that he's going to have to...well...bite...a few...people."

A very still beat settled through the Hyperion.

It didn't last.

_"WHAT?!"___

"He wants you to follow," she added, slowly rising to her feet.  "Angelus is going to be there...watching him.  I guess it's some sort of initiation.  He's told the Host that he's not going to kill anyone.  That he doesn't want to, and I think we need to trust him on this.  But he's going to be biting people, and he'll need you there to help get them medical attention.  Stat."

"Why me?"

"A demon hunter seems logical," Wesley intervened.  "Especially one with a grudge."

"And if they see me?"

Cordelia shrugged.  "You're just gonna have to be careful."

Wright wasn't sold.  He had broken into a pace across the lobby, shaking his head and muttering little incomprehensibles to himself.  "No," broke through with some clarity.  "No, no, no, no.  I don't like this.  I don't like this at all."

"Neither does he."

Zack stopped at that, eyes blazing.  "How the fuck can we know that?  Really?  Spike's-"

"-a vampire.  I think we got that by now."  Cordelia sighed and stepped forward diplomatically.  "He's also one of us.  He's in it for her."

"How do we know he wasn't in it for the chip?  How do we _really _know?"

"Because he would've agreed to Darla's proposal in Sunnydale," the former Watcher reminded him rationally.  "Cordy's right.  Spike cares far too deeply about Buffy to do anything to endanger her...and that includes hurting others.  He knows that our support would falter greatly if word was confirmed that he was feeding again."  He stilled a moment.  "You know this, Zack.  You were here when McDonald told him that-"

Wright held up a hand, slowly calming.  The weight of reason drifted slowly back into his eyes, and he sighed his displacement.  "I know.  I know.  I was arguing this point earlier...I just..." Another long breath.  "I don't like it."

"Neither does he," Cordelia said softly.  "Apparently, he got really righteous at Caritas.  Started ranting about how it was too much pressure for someone who doesn't know, and, I seriously quote, 'what the bloody hell' he's doing, and where the line is."  She waited for the hunter's eyes before continuing.  "He's just as afraid of his potential to slip up as we are."

That seemed to settle it on some unspoken terrain.  Wright exhaled deeply and nodded, again shaking his head.  "I don't know how he expects me to help," he said.  "I'll go.  Of course I'll go...but even...what if we don't make it in time?"

"You'll make it."

"And Darla?"

Cordelia frowned.  That was the first direct reference he had given her to any relevance about the vampire that had wounded his past.  The past two days had been colored with hints - various squicks that suggested where the curious might look.  But Zack was a very private person.  He hadn't always been - that much was obvious from merely looking at him - and it was taking him an admitted while to reestablish the innate need for association.   

"He didn't mention Darla," she said after a thoughtful minute.  "But I'm guessing that you have free reign."

The shadow affixed against Wright's stature didn't agree with him.  "I don't think so," he decided.  "Just yesterday, he was pissed at the idea of...no.  For Buffy's sake."

"I don't think it would matter, personally," Wesley volunteered, just as gravely.  "If you're there and visibly not at Spike's side.  From what I gathered of your agreement last night, he didn't want you to attack because of your established relationship."

"No good.  Angelus thinks that I'm a vamp groupie."

Cordelia quirked a humored brow.  "You made him think you were a vamp groupie?"

Wright grinned unashamedly.  "I did at that," he retort.  "And I'm a damn good actor, if I don't say so myself."

"I'll bet," she replied with a smirk.  Then her gaze turned thoughtful, studying him to the point where he visibly trembled self-consciously.  "You know, you should really do that more often."

"Do what?  Act?"

"No, smile.  I don't think I've seen you really smile since you got here."

He shrugged.  "Haven't had much reason to before."

"I like it.  Keep it up."  Before he could offer another reply, she turned sharply to the former Watcher, who was fixated on the transaction with an arched brow.  "So, what's the game plan?  You both gonna tackle the 'patrolling Spike' front, or-"

"It's not a good idea to advertise that I'm a demon hunter," Wright interjected.  "Especially not now.  As much as it really pains me to admit it, Spike was right last night.  If I establish that I'm very much working with you guys, it'll raise suspicion and get him staked and her killed.  There's no way that's going to work with any degree of accuracy." 

"You can say that you were using him because you knew who he was."  Cordelia shrugged.  "It wouldn't be too far from the truth, pre-us."

"I'd already thought about that.  Seems most plausible, but still too early."  The hunter shook his head, glancing to Wesley again.  "If we follow, I'm gonna have to take you with me.  That way any diversion we cause can be at your digression."  He held up a hand before any feasible objection tainted the air.  "Don't worry, old man.  I won't let them-"

"I wasn't going to say that," the former Watcher grumbled.  Then paused.  "Old?  Do I look old?"  He turned to Cordelia, whose eyes were alight with amusement.  "I don't look old, do I?  I certainly don't think so.  Why, I've gotten carded at several of the bars Gunn drags me to.  Point of fact-"

The young woman cleared her throat, unable to banish the smile from her face.  "Earth to Wes.  Slightly on the less of the importance-o-meter right now."

"But-"

Wright cleared his throat.  "I take it back.  Are you coming or not?"

"Of course."  Wesley sighed and removed his glasses.  Amongst all Watchers - current or former - the routine polishing of lenses was a definite must in such tidings.  "If it will help.  I am prepared to deal with Angelus if I must.  Anything right now would be useful.  Right now, we at least know that Buffy is all right, and-"

Zack pursed his lips worriedly, disposition altering without the suggestion of any labeled whim.  "I don't understand that," he said.  "Despite everything...from what I've read about the Order, particularly Angelus, it seems that he would've tired of her by now."

"If she was anyone else, he likely would have," the former Watcher agreed.  "But Buffy is a Slayer.  Not only that, she is a Slayer that he had a lengthy relationship with.  And even if the novelty of abusing her now wears off, she might have some higher importance to Wolfram and Hart that is keeping her temporarily protected."  

The demon hunter was complacent for a minute before the frown on his face deepened, and he shook his head. "I don't see any of them being the type to uphold contracts.  Especially where these matters are concerned.  From what I've read on Angelus - and what I _know _of Darla - there are too many opportunities opened to them.  What's to stop them from siring her and causing the town that much more damage?  I don't get it."

Wesley chuckled humorlessly.  "I wouldn't worry about them siring anyone," he offered.  "It would not be beneficial in the slightest."

"Why not?"

"Because the last time a Slayer was sired, she laid waste to her maker, his childer, and who-knows-how-many-other-vampires before she was finally defeated.  That was centuries ago."  When it didn't appear that Wright was following, he shook his head and leaned forward conspiratorially.  "Siring a Slayer is essentially signing a death warrant.  They're damn near impossible to kill, with Slayer strength in addition to demonic attributes, and by the time it's over, angry as hell with the one who made her.  The fact that they maintain humanity is really, in the end, merely a footnote."

"Angel explained this to us a long time ago," Cordelia said, nodding.  She was munching on an apple that she had seemingly brandished from nowhere.  "If Slayers didn't maintain their souls, then all vampires would wanna turn them.  Being a sire already gives you a certain measure of power - if you were the sire of a soulless Slayer, you'd be damn near invincible."

"Which is why the Powers That Be deemed it impossible," Wesley concluded.  "To even the odds.  I suppose they consider it poetic justice.  If a vampire is fool enough to sire a Slayer, he'll most assuredly get what he deserves when she wakes."

Wright took a long minute, blinking unsurely.  "So we don't have to worry about that."

"No," the Watcher replied.

"Nadda," Cordelia confirmed.

"Zilch," Gunn said, slamming the door to the lobby shut to gain their attention.  The group jumped at random before simultaneously setting into a glower at his haphazard entry.  It wasn't a good idea in times such as these to try to surprise one's colleagues.  He merely grinned unashamedly and shrugged.  "Ya'll are humorless.  So, what'd I miss?"

Wright and Wesley's eyes met, and they broke for the weapons closet in unison.  It didn't take much make an assortment of selections - rather they were on their way for the door in a matter of seconds.  

"Come on, Charlie," Zack said with a grin, patting the other man on the shoulder as they headed out.  "We're goin' out for a spot."

"A huh?"

Cordelia just shook her head and gestured after them.  "Just go.  They'll explain."

"Right."  Gunn turned to follow with a frown.  It took a few seconds for the demon hunter's words to sink in - he whapped him upside the head in affirmative relapse.  "And don't call me Charlie.  God, you and Spike, I swear..."

Wright merely smiled and shook his head, turning to wink at Cordelia.  "Watch the girls for me, would you?"

"Sure."

"And don't let them get in trouble."

She waved dismissively.  "Trouble?  Around here?  Psh.  What could..." She stopped with a frown, eyes wide.  "God, I almost said it.  Right.  Big no to trouble.  We'll stay here and watch the very safe television, order some very safe pizza, and play a very safe game of Scrabble."

"Wouldn't call that safe," he advised.  "You don't know how competitive Nikki can get."

"Nikki?" a thoroughly confused Gunn asked.

"Again, we'll explain."  

"Bye, Cordy!" Wes called.

"Bye!  Don't get killed!"

Wright grinned.  "Words to live by."

There was a thing to be said for casual camaraderie.  A sort of group dynamic that he could definitely grow accustomed to.

Not that he would ever admit it.  He was much too proud.

Lousy pride.

*~*~*

Over the expanse of his long life, Spike had never seen himself in this position.

The start of old times combining with new.  The feel of déjà vu was too much for him - or nearly, as one might speculate.  For an hour, he had followed them.  Been one of them.  Watched as Angelus slaughtered who he liked - some for food, most for pleasure.  Watched him dance with Darla under the falsified starlit night.  There was so much blood.  Everywhere.  It was intoxicating.

_Wrong._

He wanted so desperately to ignore that voice, but it was too persistent to be taken lightly.  It was wrong, and what's more, he knew it.

He felt it. 

They had made beautiful havoc of downtown Los Angeles.  The four - rather three - of them.  He had watched from a distance, feigned activity in a manner he very much assumed Angel had once portrayed while attempting to convince Darla of his inherent badness in China.  It disgusted him, but that didn't mean rot for difference.  It was simply that.  The face of what he had become.  Not for anyone.  Not even for Buffy: not in the end.  Spike.  The Slayer of Slayers - William the Fucking Bloody...reduced to this.  To _caring._

To caring so much that he had to avert his eyes when his grandsire sank his teeth into another hapless victim.  He had to clench his fists to stop himself from throwing Darla off the single mother heading to her car after a long night's shift at some cheap diner.  Had to flash Drusilla a smile when she danced over to him with a bloodstained mouth and asked if she had earned a cookie.  He hated them for being what they were, and worse, hated himself for hating them in the first place.

He had never felt so thoroughly torn.  And he hated them for it.

"My William is not hungry?" Drusilla asked him, pouting as she rubbed his stomach, curled into his side.  "I can feel you, pet.  Tummy's growling at me.  Think it will feast on my hand lest we find you something better."

Of-fucking-course.

"Spike!" Angelus exclaimed loudly, thumping him on the back.  "M'boy.  What's wrong?  Too fresh for you?  I'm sure we can make a pit stop at the blood bank if you _really _find it necessary.  Though I must say, I'm disappointed.   Nearly a century of famine and I dove right in.  You've been on your diet for...what?  A year?"

"I must say," Darla cooed, strolling up to him and licking idly at her fingers.  "You are quite a picture from the loud, obnoxious thing I remember.  Actually, Angelus, I think I prefer our Spike this way.  Submissive and influential.  Perhaps we-"

"Just levelin' the playin' field, mate," Spike said, though his thoughts were decidedly elsewhere.  If it wasn't bad enough that every turn saw a dampening of his already forbidden conscience, he couldn't keep himself from thinking of the girl he had left behind.  For this.  

She was waiting for him, and he was out with those who had wronged her.  

The peroxide vampire's eyes fell shut and blinked to awareness immediately.

He couldn't afford to sacrifice his footing.

"Leveling the playing field?" Angelus reiterated, arching a brow.  "Interesting.  And here I thought you were simply sitting on your ass."

"You must concede, Spike," Darla added, "that in the past, you've been more a level_er, _rather than waiting for it to happen."

"Hush, grandmum," Drusilla cooed, burying her face in his shoulder.  "My dearest is simply working up to his goodies.  He's been all alone for too long.  Wandering through the night with no one to answer his call."

"Aww, poor baby," his grandsire snickered.  "Does somebody need a hug?"

"Always knew you were a poofter," Spike retorted snidely.

"By all means..." Angelus gestured grandly.  "Thrill me with your acumen."

"'ll do better, you righteous wanker."  In all honesty, he didn't know what he would do.  The idea of taking one of these people...the very same that he shouldn't care about.

The very same that he did.

These people who had homes and families.  Husbands, wives, children, parents, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers...

_One li'l nibble won' hurt anyone._

Spike sighed.  When had life become so damn complicated?

_Three words.__  Buffy Anne Summers._

There.  He subconsciously selected the best looking of the lot.  The healthiest.  The one chit that looked like she could stand for a little bloodletting.  And from there, it was instinct.  He didn't know how it happened.  Any of it.  From one minute standing on the sidelines, watching everything pass before him, to pursuing his intended into some dark, forsakenly archetypal alley.

He reverted to game face and inhaled deeply...searching...

The woman was trembling.  A wreck.  Her eyes were fixated on his face in horror, and she had released a string of burdened pleas and bargains for her life.  He wasn't listening, too entranced by the picture she presented.  There was fear.  Real fear.  He hadn't smelled true fear in a long time.  A man half-starved with self-induced famine, and she was practically begging for it.

God. For that moment, he wanted to.  Wanted to bugger it all and sink his fangs in her throat.  Remember, remind himself of the taste of blood.  Real blood.  Direct from the sodding concentrate.  Buffy's image flittered in and out of his mind, but he was too forgone to worry with intangibles.  What mattered was there was reason here.  There was purpose.  And if he neared just a bit more...

"Please!" the girl whimpered, throat scratchy and rumbly with all sorts of mousy squeaks.  "P-p-please d-d-don't hurt m-m-m-me.  Take whatever y-y-you need.  I have money.  Just p-pl-please don't hurt-"

Something nagging his insides.  Spike was too entranced with the scent of raw fear to notice.  He had her by the shoulders and pressed flush against some building side.  He nuzzled her throat, reveling in the throbbing pulse that beckoned his fangs to her.  Intoxicating.  

Then something happened.

In later days, he wouldn't know if the guilt or the smell hit him first.  He speculated it was the guilt but there was every chance he was reaching with wishful thinking.  Just that at one precise moment, everything came reeling back.  Buffy's face fought through his bloodlust, remind him of his purpose.  What he was here doing.  What he needed to portray in the face of danger.  His reason.  His bloody meaning.

He became aware of a familiar scent next.  Actually, three familiar scents.  His friends from Angel Investigations were close.  Close to the point that they were watching him.

Spike reckoned if he actually went through with it, he earned whatever punishment they gave.  

He didn't.  It was bad enough that he thought about it.

It was bad enough that he lamented thinking about it.

Life was one vicious fucking cycle.

He didn't make a move to withdraw.  Rather, his mouth neared even further.  Such to the point where his bumpies ground against her in effort to avoid the throbbing temptation of her pulse.  Then his lips were at her ear, and he was whispering with serenity that directly contradicted the pressure his body was suffering.  "Shhh, pet," he murmured.  "'m not gonna hurt you, all right?"

There was a pause at that.  She was trying to decipher if he had already killed her and this was the afterlife.  That or something equally expected.  "Wh...what?"

"'S gonna sting a li'l.  But I promise I'm not gonna kill you.  I'm not even gonna rob you.  Your goods are safe as bloody houses."  The hands that had previously kept her prostrate were now rubbing circular caresses into her shoulder, but at that she seemed to tense more.  He frowned until he realized her assumption, and had to fight the temptation to roll his eyes.  "An' no, I'm not gonna sully your virtue.  Reckon 's not virtuous enough for my taste, anyway.  Jus' close your eyes, an' it'll be over before you know it."

"But-"

"Three blokes'll be here in a sec.  Good guys.  You get me?  They'll take care of you.  Don' fight 'em."

"I-"

An intrusive scent suddenly perturbed the alleyway.

"Well, Spike," Angelus drawled, bored.  "You actually gonna do it, or have you taken to romancing your dinner before you make the kill?"

Spike tensed but relaxed just as easily.  He didn't move.  "Jus' make it look real, pet," he whispered, voice degrees lower.  "An' all will be fine.  'F you don', this chap'll do you an' me in.  Y'don' want that, do you?"

She shook her head rapidly.  The hot sting of her tears collided with his cheek and served to make him feel worse than he already did.  But they were through with negotiations; he had told her all that he could.  The rest was up to her.

At first bite, though, Spike nearly buckled with pleasure.  The first taste of human blood from the source in over a year.  It felt so damn good.  He pressed her against the wall with more intent, ignoring her dying wails and pleas that seemed to melt into nowhere.  He drank, and he drank fully.  Unabashed.  And it was good.

Too good.

When he felt her heartbeat begin to slow, he pulled away and consigned her to the ground without so much as a second glance.  He snickered disinterestedly before pivoting back to Angelus, arching a brow.  "Right then," he said, overwhelmed and more than a little buzzed.  "Let's off, shall we?"

For the look on his grandsire's face, the entire ordeal was almost worth it.

Almost.

It continued like that for what seemed like hours.  Watching.  Tearing.  Destroying.  Killing without killing.  Confronting many terrified patrons who looked him in the eye and realized that what he said was true - others that refused to listen to reason.  Those he let go without a struggle.  Well, a struggle in the hindsight of those watching him, but not a real struggle.  There were times when he thought Angelus's eyes narrowed a bit too much for his own good, but his action was never questioned.  Drusilla was pleased.  Darla was apathetic.  And that was, currently, all that mattered.

Only that his thoughts were with someone else, and being so near her without seeing her at all was slowly driving him out of his mind.

He couldn't stay out here long.  He had to get away.

To see her.

If only once. 

*~*~*

"Hospital checked," Gunn reported as he strolled over to Zack and Wesley.  They were hovering over the third person that Spike had allegedly killed that night.  A small teenager who looked to be much too pale for her own good.  "The chick I dropped off should be fine."

"We better check her in, too," the former Watcher decided, lifting the girl into his embrace.  "I believe he took enough to make it look realistic, but still it was too much to my liking."

"Everything tonight's too much to my liking," Wright muttered irritably.  

Wesley nodded at him gravely but did not reply.  Instead, he turned back to Gunn and deposited the small bundle into his arms.  "Did you see them on your way back?" he asked softly.

"Yeah.  And let me tell you, man, not a pretty picture."

"Where are we gonna be needed next?" Wright demanded.

"I don't know.  Spike wasn't there."

"Wasn't _there?" _

Gunn shrugged.  "Not that I saw.  And Angelus was getting pretty pissy about it.  Seems he snuck off about a half hour ago.  Think our boy's afraid of a little competition?"

"That or something else."  

Wright frowned.  He didn't like this one bit.  "I don't get it.  It's risking too much to..." he began lowly.  "Where would he have gone?"

*~*~*

Someone was nearing.

Buffy realized this dimly, but it failed to click.  Somewhere, everything had fallen into a tedium of habit.  Habit.  Had she been here long enough to form habit?  It sure seemed as such.  She didn't know.  Her eyes were too tired from trying to keep them open, her arms strained with too much exertion and the innate but denied need to find rest.  She had been hanging for what seemed like forever.

There might as well be no skin there, for all they had done.

And more.  Always coming back for more.  She wondered if she would feel it this time.  Last time hadn't hurt nearly as bad.  Perhaps her nerves were wearing away one by one.  Perhaps...

Someone was nearing.  A vampiric someone.  Her Slayer senses were still there, still tingling in her gut.  Lately it seemed to be an Angelus alarm.  Forewarning her of his impending approach.

Someone was nearing.  God, she hoped it didn't hurt this time.  

Someone was there.  

There.  Breathing.  Harshly.  And then murmuring her name with such wrought emotion that it nearly stirred her to awareness.  Nearly but not quite.  Someone was there.

"Oh...God..." That voice!  That rough brogue that had lost its cocky tenor.  She knew that voice.  Knew it to the point where it haunted her dreams, and served as the false idol of her salvation.  Some distant point, that thought had come and gone, and she was used to it by now.  Used to dreaming up the image of the one person that shouldn't come.  Used to seeing him - though for no reason whatever - only to have him tell her the same.

She was dreaming again.  Only she wasn't.  This was real.

"Oh...Buffy..."__

And she knew that voice.

That was all it took.  She glanced up, and her pained eyes went wide with astonishment.  The Slayer had thought all surprise in her weary being to be forfeited.  But no.  It was there.  There, and burning with as much fervor as ever.

Never had she known the ocean could be so blue.  It took a minute to realize she wasn't looking at the ocean.  And another to come to a realization she still thought to be of her own design.

It wasn't Angelus.

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Two: _Sweet Temptation_...**


	23. Sweet Temptation

**Disclaimer: Might contain disturbing imagery**.  
  


**Chapter Twenty-Two****  
  
Sweet Temptation**

  
  
The moment stretched too long; he was paralyzed. Absolutely paralyzed.  
  
There she was. The symbol of his journey. The reason for being. The light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. All there. All waiting for him. Simply with her presence—existing as she did. She beckoned him without saying a word, and he knew before he started that he was battling a lost cause.  
  
There was no way he could resist this. It was foolish to have thought otherwise.  
  
A hand clamped down on his shoulder before he could act. Wright blinked slowly and realized he had already initiated the first steps for forwarded attack. The crossbow in grasp was slowly making its way to aim. Wanting, seeking, needing a target. A reason. A case to end all others. He had a clear shot. A good, clear shot, and he wanted to take it.  
  
"No," Wesley said softly, as though reading his mind.  
  
Wright was too forgone to listen. To hear anything at all. His eyes remained fixated on the sheath of blonde hair. The crimson essence bathed in her hands and setting against the cream of alabaster skin. He needed to end it. Never had anything been clearer since the day he arrived back at the house. Since the smell of blood—Amber's blood—tainted the air with all its bittersweet substance.  
  
He needed to end it.  
  
That day. That horrible day.  
  
_Sitting in the car on the way home from the grocery store. Rosie glances up, chocolate from the forbidden candy bar he had given her smeared all over her beautiful mouth. She had always looked more like Amber than him—he maintained it sparingly. His little girl.  
  
Her eyes. Cobalt cylinders of truth and understanding. "Daddy," she said in a voice that wasn't entirely hers. "Something's wrong with Mommy."_  
  
Pain was a funny thing. Zack had long ago thought to have repressed his innate bearings. The wounds that healed still after endless fallacies in clearing them. There were mornings that saw wake so distant that he questioned his ability to move on. In continuing at all. He watched Rosie grow older each day, the life behind her eyes far more telling than any mark on the calendar would betray. Always tacit. Always complacent. Understanding that what he did was inevitably for her. Ridding the world of its filth, even if he never succeeded.  
  
He was only one man, and they kept coming.  
  
Darla was the reason. She was the key to unleashing his suffering. She had made him what he was today. She had molded the fabric of her own design. Molded and turned him into Zachary Wright: Demon Hunter. There were days when he hated himself. For what he was. Who he was. What he had allowed himself to become. How he couldn't stop.  
  
Perhaps, just perhaps, if he killed the reason—if he cut off everything at the source—he would be able to move on. He would know some sort of peace.  
  
Perhaps.  
  
It was worth a try.  
  
It was worth everything.  
  
"No."  
  
Wesley again. The man's eyes were set with understanding and gravity. Impending knowledge of what he wanted. What was needed, even if it remained denied. Yes, the Watcher knew well. He had heard the story in its much abbreviated form two years earlier while wandering the horizon in search of something greater than what he was. Wesley knew. He knew that Darla had done something to make the man before him. He knew that whatever hope of happiness Zack had once possessed now lay burdened and buried under something ugly and raw and so completely out of form that it might as well be nonexistent.  
  
He knew. But he knew nothing of how deep that trench was dug. How impossible it was to climb out, unless someone threw him some rope.  
  
Wright frowned and his gaze hardened. He didn't need rope. All he needed was a clear shot.  
  
"Zack," Wesley said, "if you do this now, Spike will never forgive you."  
  
Oh yes. The voice of reason. Risk the alliance of a vampire. Of _one of them_.  
  
"What?" Gunn demanded roughly. "What's going on?"  
  
Neither man answered him.  
  
"You don't get it, Wes," Wright replied lowly, keeping his aim trained with expertise that came only with experience. "You don't—"  
  
"I know what she did to you was unforgivable."  
  
He snickered. "Unforgivable. What a way to butter it up."  
  
"But you cannot indulge your vengeance now. It could kill Buffy." That lent him pause. Wright glanced up slowly, reasoning overwhelming him once more. The Watcher's grip on his weapon tightened, and ultimately persuaded him to lower altogether. "I know," he said softly. "Spike's a man of his word, despite his inability to formerly be a man. He won't let her get away with what she did. But you _cannot_ succumb to temptation now."  
  
"And once again," Gunn muttered irately, "I'm in the dark. What the _hell_ are you—"  
  
"Darla will die," Wright stated. He might as well have been reciting the pledge of allegiance for all the feeling he put behind it. Not a question, not a whim: a cold fact. Darla _would_ die. He wanted it known.  
  
"Yes," Wesley agreed. "Yes, she will."  
  
There was a long, dramatic pause. Zack finally sighed and his roughened demeanor softened. He shook his head wearily. "This is too much," he murmured. "Stopping because it might endanger the position of a vampire—"  
  
"—whom has come to be your friend, whether you want to admit it or not."  
  
"We're not friends."  
  
"Yes you are. Anyone that has seen you interact would say the same."  
  
Two sets of eyes looked expectantly to Gunn at that, as though demanding that he choose a side. Predictably, the man's hands came up in ode of pacifism, and he shook his head. "Don't look at me," he said. "I've only just started to catch up. You people _really_ need to keep your personnel on the up better than this."  
  
Wright frowned and looked away. "All right. Fine. So the guy's not as…we're not friends, and we never will be. Vampires are—"  
  
"Zack, it's all right to be his friend," Wesley said neutrally. "Trust me. I grew up around that…believing that. My father was a Watcher, and I have it on good authority that he is less than pleased with my occupational transformation. But I've lived my life on the understanding that vampires are evil. And look at me. Working for one."  
  
"Don't really think you can say you're working for Angel anymore," Gunn observed.  
  
"If not one, then the other," the other man replied with a shrug. "There are always exceptions. I merely figured that Angel was the only one. I was wrong. Spike is…for whatever reason…he is the way he is. You saw him tonight. Even when temptation was at its greatest, he managed to withhold."  
  
"Only we don't know where he is now," Wright grumbled, though it was more than obvious that such stood as more scrutiny than accusation.   
  
"I think he went back to Wolfram and Hart." Gunn earned a shrug for that theory, and he returned it with just the same. "Seems most likely to me. Or is off getting drunk off his scrawny, pale, undead ass."  
  
Zack's eyes lit with amusement. "Spent a lot of time looking at his ass, have you?"  
  
"No, just speculating." The other man paused with a wince. "That so did not come out right." He held his hands up. "I am not gay. Very much not—"  
  
"Suuuure."  
  
"Is Nikki seeing anyone?"  
  
That was enough. The smile on Wright's face dissipated into an immediate frown. "I think I liked you better when you were gay."  
  
"I'm serious! She's a fiery little package, if I remember right. Think you might be good enough to introduce me all formal like when we get back?"  
  
There was a long moment's pause.  
  
"Wes," Wright said, pivoting to his friend. "We're leaving. Now."  
  
"But…Spike…"  
  
"Is gone. He gets in trouble, he'll have to deal with it." His eyes leveled with Gunn's, but there was no sign of ill intent. Simply a rugged smile that disclosed that he knew how to take a jest. "Besides, I think it's time we went back. Actually had a night to ourselves."  
  
"You _are_ new in town," the other man chuckled. "Night to ourselves? No such thing 'round these parts."  
  
"Well," Zack retorted, grinning. "Guess we'll have to see about changing that, won't we?"

*~*~*

  
  
Cordelia leaned over the open refrigerator, jotting down her observations on the yellow notepad that nearly certified its presence as a third appendage. Down to two, she saw. Definitely overdue for a trip to the butcher, even if their resident vampire—make that both of them—was currently somewhere that was very else. She didn't know when to expect Spike back, but it would be better to be prepared. After all, a hungry vampire was an irritable vampire; especially if said vampire was currently running around all dechipped.  
  
Not that she didn't have every faith in Spike. For whatever reason, it was never a question of undisputed analysis. She knew she could trust him, and that alone was a frightening revelation.  
  
All in a day's work.  
  
"'So Cordy, how did you spend your Friday night?'" she asked herself in a roughly butch voice. Then, not missing a beat, turned around to answer. "'Oh, you know. Entered time sheets, answered some email, made sure the boss's blood supply was thoroughly stocked. The usual.'"  
  
She smiled ironically, not nearly as bothered as she sounded. Her attention turned to her writing once more, checking the supplies they would need next time Wesley or Gunn made an inventory run. Never had she thought that she would be so content as to spend a highly recognized party night in the murky seclusion of a creepy hotel. And yet, despite the notably darkened ambiance centered on their current situation, she was oddly satisfied. As though there was no other place that she would rather be.  
  
Of course, it was a truth universally acknowledged that when one reaches any level of complacency, everything set upon such a pedestal falls inevitably to pieces. Cordelia had just shut the refrigerator when the first wave came roaring down, sending her against the wall with an uninhibited wail of pain.  
  
It came slowly—though it did not seem like it. The first unbearable crashes of inexplicable despair. And oh God, she felt it all. The full of everything there was to feel. The tugging at her heartstrings that pulled her into an endless downward spiral. Anger—no—fury. Fury and more sadness than she had ever felt. The essential feel of having everything that she had ever regarded as precious ripped from hindsight, leaving her cold, naked, and in the middle of a winter harvest.  
  
"Oh God," Cordelia choked, reaching for her throat.  
  
The wealth of feeling subsided just as rapidly as it had begun—but she was not left at peace. She could not be. Instead, all melted into a world of imagery. And she saw.  
  
Saw.  
  
And screamed.

*~*~*

  
  
His eyes blurred with exercised strain that should not exist. Every nerve in his being alight with verve. Reaching and touching strains of such regarded emotion that he felt his heart might explode, were it capable of beating. His throat scratched with the suddenly innate need to breathe. To gasp. To burst into tears. He had never known such raw…such anything. It touched him. Burned him. Buried him alive with the clandestine feel of unfettered humanity.   
  
"Oh…God…" he gasped.   
  
She was hanging there. Hanging there and had been for days. There was a strain in her arms from the chains attached to the ceiling, and he saw it even through layers of caked blood and grime. Her feet were made the same—shackled and kept by chains that protruded from the floor. She was completely barren of any stitch of clothing, and her once-perfect skin was burdened with more burnings of numerous lashings than he had ever seen.  
  
She looked dead. If she had not opened her eyes to look at him with dazed recognition, he would have thought it so.  
  
And he couldn't help himself. Spike covered the space between them before another beat could pass. He didn't know what to do—if there was anything to do. If all had been sacrificed for the namesake of something else. He met her pained eyes and realized without a word that she, while notably recognizing him, did not believe him to be real. It was nothing that required verification to understand. That look was one he was well familiar with in the hindsight of experience. He feared to have caused it as much as any other.  
  
But it had never been like this.  
  
"God, Buffy," he sobbed, inwardly berating himself for the tears that could not be helped. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry."  
  
Her eyes were still unfocused and bleary. She blinked several times before she finally saw him. Really saw him. Saw him and understood. "Spike?" she breathed inarticulately. It pained him to hear her. Hear the raw abuse sustained behind her voice. God, she looked unreal. He _felt_ unreal. Finally having her skin under his hands after too many nights wasted worrying when he could have been taking more affirmative steps to help her. Earlier, when he stood outside this room and knew she was on the other side, and did nothing. Because of the _others_. Spike was quite sure he had never hated himself as richly as he did at that moment.   
  
"Yes, sweetheart," he replied softly, caressing her cheek as gently as he could. Any sense of vacillation in such terms of endearment left him—possibly forever. He couldn't help himself if he tried. "'S me. I'm here."  
  
Buffy was looking at him with eyes that did not belong to her. As though she had known all along that it would be him, and that was impossible. A choked sob sounded through her lips, and she leaned forward. Then her breath was fanning his ear, and she murmured in a low tone, "Be gentle. Please…don't make it hurt too much."  
  
Her request took him aback, and he pulled away to study her before realizing what she meant. To what she was referring. And it made his cold blood boil. "No, you don' understand," he said firmly. "God, Buffy, I'm not here to…I'd never hurt you, pet. You get me? I'd _never_ hurt you. I'm here to help. Only here to help. Buffy? Baby, do you hear me?"  
  
The Slayer blinked at him wearily. Staring with whatever life was left behind such empty pools of once brilliant light. He watched as she was slowly filled with comprehension. And her vision blurred with shared tears. "You're here?"  
  
The words nearly broke him, but he nodded. "That's right. I'm here."  
  
"Spike…" For a minute, he was sure he was dreaming. Never in a thousand years, despite the outcome of all this, had he thought she would utter his name in that tenor. It seemed conjured, though he hoped his mind was not perverse enough to present this picture of her. Something he would never wish upon her, even in his thoughts. "Spike. Oh God, are you real?"  
  
That was it; the relief in her voice bid him any reservation aside, and he was covering her face with feather light kisses of sturdy reassurance, his tears mingling with hers. "'m here, luv. I'm here. I'm here to help. Here to get you out."  
  
"Angelus—"  
  
"'E's out. He an' the others. They're gone." He buried his face in her hair and inhaled—taking in the essence that was essentially Buffy. Forced there beneath the blood and dirt. The hinted scent of her tears from how-many-days ago. God, he hated himself. Though there was no reason to suggest it, he felt the burden of blame weighing down on his shoulders.   
  
"You're real?" she murmured again.  
  
"I'm real, luv. I bloody well promise you."  
  
His knees nearly buckled when she felt her abused lips caressing his throat. It had to be a dream. There was no way she would reciprocate his affections—now or ever. Had to be a dream. But _God,_ it felt real. "You've said you're real before," she said. Okay, not making sense, but he figured he would go with it. "And then…you've left me. And he's come back."  
  
A cold shiver ran up his spine. Spike pulled back and cupped her face in his hands, meeting her eyes. "I promise you," he said again, thumbs rubbing comforting circles in her cheeks. "'m real. I'm real, an' I'm not leavin' you." His fingers trailed down her throat and traced her arms, fury overwhelming him on levels he was, in many ways, still unaccustomed to. "God…"  
  
"He's…"  
  
"He's gone, Sweets."  
  
Her eyes clouded with tears. "He's hurt me so much, Spike."  
  
He nodded, whispering another kiss of reassurance against her lips, demanding nothing from her. More, it served to satisfy his own qualms that he was imagining all this. That she wasn't real; that _he_ wasn't real. He wouldn't voice them, of course. She was already worried about that.  
  
Such alone should serve as enough reassurance. In every fantasy he had entertained involving her rescue; she had never questioned his own tangibility.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Why?"  
  
That was a bloody good question, and he trembled at the unspoken implications. No one deserved what had been done to her. The pure, relentless monstrosity behind every inkling of touch. Of contact. He had no answer for her. Nothing to satisfy her curiosity and his phases of self-loathing and regret.   
  
The most obvious answer remained that Angelus was a monster by nature. But that wasn't what she wanted to hear. Not if it tarnished the name of her precious Angel.   
  
And he would not upset her. Not like this.  
  
"I don' know," he replied, nuzzling her throat delicately. Her pulse throbbed against his mouth, and unlike before, his demon's intention was far from sinking his fangs into her skin. Far from. More, the sound of her heartbeat ringing in his ears served as the most blessed reassurance he could have asked for. She was alive. She was really alive. And she was here. "I'm gonna get you out, luv. I swear to you. I—"  
  
"No…that's not…" Buffy took a deep breath, her eyes nearly rolling up inside her head when his lips began dancing up and down her throat. He didn't know if she was reacting to him or the feel of something that elicited pleasure instead of pain, and for the moment, he didn't care. The taste of her, tarnished or not, was the richest flavor he had ever hoped to touch. His own slice of Heaven here in such a small package. "Spike…why did…why you?"  
  
Oh.  
  
At that, the platinum vampire pulled back, reveling in the whimper of protest she indulged at the loss of his mouth.   
  
There was no way he could answer that question without upsetting her. Despite her favorable reaction to his attentions, he understood that it was the product of disassociation. When she finally came to her senses, she would likely stake him for presuming to touch her at all, least of all in this manner.  
  
"Doesn't matter," he whispered. "I came. I couldn't let them have you."  
  
"You hate me," she whimpered, arching her throat to persuade him back.  
  
"No, baby. I don't. I…" What could he possibly say that would assure her without terrifying her? His hands were still at her arms, drawing comforting patterns into her abused skin. "I don't. You gotta believe that."  
  
"But—"  
  
"No 'buts.'" He fisted the material holding her up, determined to pull her free and have that be the end of it. Get her as far from here as possible, damned to his previous reservations. There was no way he would leave her with those monsters. Not with what they had done to her. "Come on, luv. We're goin' for walkies."  
  
"Spike—"  
  
"Right. You called my bluff. I'll carry you. Wrap you up in my nice warm duster, an' get you the hell out of here. Come on. This might sting a minute. Wish I could—"  
  
"Won't work."  
  
He blinked. "What?"  
  
"These…" she wiggled her arm demonstratively and made the chain rattle, ignoring the instinctive pain that flooded her face, even if he did not. "These can't be…enchanted. Lindsey…said…"  
  
"Lindsey? The lawyer?" Spike cupped her face again and brought their eyes level. "Did that wanker touch you? Did he—"  
  
"No."  
  
Well, that was some relief. Some. Very little. Hardly proper to call it relief, but he did anyway.  
  
"Enchanted," she coughed again, leaning as far into his comforting touch as possible. "He said…bindings are…"  
  
Whatever reassurance had been bubbling within the platinum vampire died just as easily. "The bindings are enchanted?"   
  
She nodded pitifully.  
  
He was almost afraid to ask. "Who…who has access?"  
  
"Angelus," she replied. Distant, as though consigning herself to a fate that did not deserve her. It made his dead veins charge with heated energy. Never had he thought that he would see the day where life had conquered her so, even if she was trapped in circumstances such as these. "He…no one else."  
  
Spike nodded, caressing her brow with his lips again. Inwardly, he was torn apart. If Angelus was the sole proprietor controlling her freedom, getting her loose was not going to be as simple as he had originally designed. There were several thousand things that could be said about the platinum vampire—many of them true—and demonstrative lack of constructive forethought was definitely one of them. In his hypothesized reality, he would storm in, yank Buffy free by any means necessary, and carry her into the proverbial sunset on an equally proverbial white stallion. On some retrospective level, he had known it would be more complicated than that.  
  
But it hurt. It hurt so much to look at her and know he would leave her off no better. Not until he knew how to snatch Angelus's control from him.  
  
He needed access. He needed the key. And he needed it now.  
  
"You're not leaving, are you?" she asked softly, plead wrought in her tone. As though she had read some form of resignation on his face, and automatically assumed the worst to come of it. Her words made his heart break all over again. "God, Spike, please don't leave me. You said you were real. You promised me. You said—"  
  
He silenced her with another kiss—boisterous this time, tasting, and a tad lustful, giving the connotations of his decree. And still, she responded with enthusiasm, even zeal. He had to again remind himself that in this state, she would likely respond to a trained chimp and not to read too much into it. His mind was already on the fast track to wedding marches and honeymoon arrangements. Poncy sod.  
  
"I'm really, baby," he promised her. "Very, very real."  
  
"You were real before."  
  
At that, he quirked a brow. She had mentioned something of the like several times already; this time he would not let it go unexplained. "Before?"  
  
"When you were here…" Tears were flooding her eyes again, and he really couldn't stand for that. Not on a face that had seen so much pain already. She was struggling to lean forward once more, wanting to find solace in his arms even as her bindings would not allow it. "You were here, and—"  
  
"I was here?"  
  
She nodded, unable to say more.  
  
Spike stared at her in bewilderment. She had dreamt of him. She had dreamt of him coming for her, being here for her like he was now. She had known he was…and despite everything, she had not allowed herself to believe.  
  
If he left her now, she might dismiss everything as another delusion. He couldn't stand it were such the case. He knew he couldn't.  
  
Thus, he was determined to make it as real as possible. Spike neared her lips again with feverish intent, pouring the range of his very confused, very agitated but sound emotions into their union. Making sure that she knew it was him—that she was no longer alone even if he had to excuse himself from her side. That he was here now, and if it killed him, he would make sure that she got out.   
  
He had never known anything with such declaration.  
  
"I have people," he murmured when he pulled away. "People who're helpin' me. Angel's old pals an' the like. Cordy an' Wes. You remember them, luv?"  
  
Buffy blinked dazedly as she registered the absence of his mouth. When she realized she had been addressed, she offered a bemused nod. He merely smiled kindly, kissed her again, and caressed her face with as much softness as a vampire could produce. "Wes," she said after a minute. "And Cordy."  
  
Spike decided to take her response as a yes. One couldn't expect too much of her more than that. "Right. They're in on it. Helpin' me with everythin' they can. An' there's this bloke…this demon hunter bloke. 'E's in on it, too. A merry band dedicated to gettin' you out."  
  
"You're leaving me."  
  
"No, I'm—"  
  
Her face began to crumble with new conviction, and the sight was enough to nearly convince him to set a camp here at her beck and call. But no. That would only damn her and himself. She would understand someday; she had to. "'F your stupid sod of an ex finds me here, luv, 'e's gonna be right pissed. Might off the both of us."   
  
Tears were rolling down her cheeks again, and he flinched with her as fresh salt touched open wounds. His hands remained a course to soothe, but there was little he could do to offer her comfort.   
  
Aside make the personal revelation that Angelus was going to pay with blood for what he had done.  
  
The sad ocean of her eyes wrapped the small bearings of his assurance and conviction. Such despair from a tower of strength—he couldn't bear it. "Please," he gasped against her. "Please, don' think for a minute that I wanna leave you. Do you have any idea what I went through to get here? To be…" He trailed off helplessly. "There's nowhere else I wanna be. Now or ever. I don't want to…but I'll be back, baby. I promise."  
  
"Yes," she agreed solemnly, soundless tears rolling lazily down her cheeks. "You will be. You always come back. But it never changes."  
  
"Only I'm real this time, Buffy." He laid a hand over her chest, reveling in the gentle hum of her heartbeat against his touch. Verification there. It was as precious to him as blood. "Can't you feel me?"  
  
She nodded, though incredulity shone through her gaze. She still didn't believe.  
  
"What else can I do, pet?"  
  
"Don't go."  
  
If only.  
  
"I have to. Jus' for a li'l while. But I'm coming back, I—"  
  
Her eyes drifted shut in wan defeat. He felt it rolling off her, and hated himself for it all the more. "Don't," she requested softly.  
  
"'F I could, baby, you don' understand. I—"  
  
"Just make the pain go away."  
  
Spike nodded as though he understood. That was better than flat out denial of his presence. He expelled a deep breath and neared to whisper a kiss over her brow. "How?" he asked huskily. "How can I…?"  
  
Buffy closed her eyes and mewled. "Just…" Another breath. "If you're not real…"  
  
One step forward, two steps back.   
  
"I am, luv. What'll it take to—"  
  
"If you're not real…then…" There was a brave beat. "Please…touch me."  
  
Spike froze in astonishment. She _couldn't_ be asking what he thought she was asking. There was no possibility. It simply was…unfeasible. That she would ever see him like that, regardless of his questionable tangibility. Clinched it, is what it did. Despite the sickness of the scenario, he consigned himself to the reality that it was a situation of his own creation.   
  
He paused at that with an inward grin. They sure were a pair—doubting each other's substantiality.   
  
Just in case, he had to play it safe. After all, should it not be a dream, he wanted to make sure he did not overstep his boundaries. His hands slid up and down her arms of their own volition, having already made up his mind for him. "Where, pet?" His lips skimmed her brow reverently, and he released a needy sigh at that. God, she _smelled_ real. "Where does it hurt?"  
  
Buffy's eyes opened then and took him completely aback. There was nothing false behind that gaze. It was fierce, intent, and stole the fallacious breath from his body. And he knew then without having to second-guess himself. This was real. This was very, very real. It was real, and she was serious. In some dreamlike state, the Slayer wanted him. _Wanted him_. Spike. She had called him by name enough times to verify her understanding of whom she was referring to. She had dreamt of him while hanging from these chains. She had called for him when there was only darkness to answer. And she was beyond petrified that _he_ wasn't real. That this was simple another image. Another dream. Another false hope to lead her down a similar path of despair.  
  
"It hurts," she whispered. "All. Over."  
  
The peroxide vampire knew appeasing her was admitting himself into dangerous territory. Despite clarity, _she_ still thought it to be in her head. If he used this opportunity to mollify his own wants, it would not only be betraying her trust, it would make him in essence of the same molding of his grandsire. And the Slayer would surely stake him when she was back to herself.  
  
The heat radiating off her, though. Spike was well aware of the scent emanating from her body. He had dreamt of it. Wanted it. Wanted her to want him so badly that it was difficult to face each day with the preempted promise of further rejection. And never, regardless of circumstance, had he ever thought to be here. With her. With her actually returning some sort of feeling that matched his. That demanded something so brazen of him.  
  
The conscience that was becoming a real bother wasn't satisfied.  
  
"Buffy," he whispered. "Are you sure? This is _me_. Spike. William the Bloody. Remember me? Remember—"  
  
A strangled sob choked through her lips, and she shook her head heavily. "Hurts so much," she cried. "It hurts so much, Spike. And it never stops. I'm the…it's not supposed to hurt so much for me. Slayers are supposed to… Please just…make it go away."  
  
That was it. Bugger the conscience. Ethics be damned. His girl needed him.  
  
And he had to leave her. If he was going to leave her…  
  
"Please…" she sobbed.  
  
"Shhhh…" Spike lowered his head to her throat, tongue caressing her sore skin as his hands slid to her hips, rubbing comforting circles against muscles that were beyond strained. He made a mental note that one of the first things he would do for her once this was over was a massage—full body, if she let him. Followed by a long soak in the tub. He could feel the tension wracked through her system. The essence of her innate strength was worn and tattered—still there, but forgotten. The strain on every ligament there was to strain.   
  
Buffy was not the Slayer. Not like this. Not while she was the torture toy of Angelus. He had raped her of everything that was ever hers to claim. Right now, she was just a girl. Just Buffy. Stashed somewhere while her ex honey tore the bloody town apart. Just a girl, waiting for her prison to enclose altogether. To ensure the fullness of her death, or give her just that much room to breathe.  
  
She tasted raw—in and of herself. The essence of Buffy. Not covered. Not clean. She was simply there, bathed in her own blood and swathed in grunge. Her skin was salted with more than simply the taste of her tears. There was nothing perceptibly pleasing about her on any purely superficial level; she was still his homecoming. The bittersweet flavor of everything she had to offer. Spike relished it. Nothing had ever affected him with such defining impact. The dry crust of her crimson goodness lacing nearly every inch of skin his lips touched. The tangles in her hair. The discernible stains on her face that marked the path her tears took. He sampled it all. Needed it all. It made her real. Made her all for him.   
  
The noises she made were driving him crazy. Not only from pleasure, but also the stepping-stones of the most breathtaking relief a person could experience. The little whispered begs for _more,_ the tears that rekindled at his touch, though not for pain. His kisses became more urgent with every breath of encouragement, his fingers aching to explore her more intimate regions, but he refrained. Even with her spoken permission, there was something about this that struck him as too thoroughly wrong to monopolize.   
  
His mouth had different ideas. After showering her collarbone with reassuring kisses, he edged himself further southward. Her encouraging moans served as music to his ears, and he found himself inwardly composing a ballad of bloody awful poetry filled with every rotten, overused cliché the world had ever seen. He nuzzled her breasts needily, then sampled each meticulously with his tongue.   
  
_"Please,"_ he heard her whimper. _"More."_  
  
The pleading within her voice drove him wild. Slowly—reverently—his tongue encircled one hardened nipple before closing his mouth around her. He kept his gaze on her face, enchanted by the sight of her. Head tossed back, eyes closed, biting her lip as if to keep herself quiet, though his touches had come at a considerable minimal, considering what he would like to do. She was beautiful to him then. More so than she had ever been.   
  
It was her strength, he decided. In the face of everything, her strength had not failed her. She had prevailed. She would. She could be destroyed over and over again, but it would take more than this to defeat her. It would take more than the armies of Hell. And _God,_ he loved her for it. His Slayer.  
  
"More," she begged him, and this time, he did not refuse her. The hands that had been itching to play stirred to life, one scaling up her body to tend to the neglected breast, the other dipping between her open thighs to caress the tender flesh given to him. His thumb lightly stroked her clit, eliciting a harsh sob from her lips.  
  
"Good," Buffy mewled. "Hurt too much."  
  
Spike immediately retracted his mouth from her skin, wide, imploring eyes seeking hers. "I'm hurtin' you?"   
  
If he hurt her, he would stake himself.  
  
"No." Funny how such a small utterance could cause a world of relief. "This feels…you're…" She was crying again. Goddamn, he never wanted to make her cry. Even and especially not like this. Reactionary tears to pleasure were something he was familiar with, but not thoroughly. And while he fancied the idea of satisfying her to such an extent that she felt moved enough to cry, it was the last thing he wanted from her now. "Am I dead?" she asked.   
  
"No."  
  
"But—"  
  
"You're very, very alive, baby." Unable to resist, Spike leaned inward and brushed his lips against hers. The hand between her legs started to move again, fingers imploring her opening with genteel delicacy. He still wasn't completely convinced that he wasn't hurting her, thus had opted to take things as earthly slow as possible. "You're burnin' me up. Makin' it…"   
  
His fingers brushed against a fluid that was not her ambrosia. Well, at least not _that_ ambrosia. Not what he sought. It made an entirely separate part of his anatomy react, though his body froze in turn.  
  
Blood. There was fresh blood between her thighs.  
  
A low, quivering breath slipped through his lips. "Buffy," he murmured. "Pet, 's it time for your monthlies? Do you know?"  
  
She blinked at him dazedly. "What?"  
  
"You're bleedin', darling." He didn't want to press the issue, but he had to know. Either way. If she was about to start her womanly cycle, Angelus was going to use that to his full advantage. The thought made his insides twist. "Are you…"  
  
Buffy looked at him a beat longer before his question clicked. "Oh, no," she replied. "How long have I been here?"  
  
"Few days."  
  
His own answer startled him. Was that all? A few days?   
  
The Slayer didn't take to the reply any better than he did. "Just a few days?"  
  
Spike smiled gently, unable to stop himself from kissing her. "It's been forever to me, pet."  
  
"Me too."  
  
"But you aren't due to your…" He gestured emphatically. There were a thousand things that he would say, that he had said, and that would remain under the category of locker room discussion, but discussing his lady's menstrual cycle was nothing he was entirely comfortable with. Especially since she wasn't really his lady. Especially since her dirtied, abused nude body hung from the ceiling like a chicken waiting to be gutted. Thus, he opted to finish lamely, "You aren't scheduled…to…erm…_commence_ your…?"  
  
"My period?"  
  
Well, seemed she had no such qualms. He was still complacent with the safer silence.   
  
"No," she said at last. "I'm not…no."  
  
Spike frowned. That didn't make any sense.  
  
Then his eyes went wide with realization. The look in hers verified the same.  
  
And he was overwhelmed. Fury so potent it might as well manifest into its own being flooded him. Poured off him. Tackled him to the ground and wrestled for the rights. The sheath behind her gaze burdened him with more estranged sorrow than he had ever thought to see, much less experience.   
  
Yet, there wasn't a part of him that could claim surprise.  
  
"Oh God," he gasped. "God, Buffy. I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna—"  
  
"Spike—"  
  
"I'm gonna kill him."  
  
"It's not him."  
  
He blinked at her incredulously. How on _earth_ could she say that? Could she still find it within herself to differentiate one from the other? It was beyond his measure. He knew damn well that if Angel ever repossessed his own body, he would damn well blame himself. Because a part of Angelus would always be the other. That was the way it was. Just as William was resurfacing within his demonic host, Angel and his counterpart similarly remained the same. With one another, neither would exist.  
  
Spike sighed at that and deftly removed his fingers from her core. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said.   
  
Buffy looked at him quizzically.  
  
"Baby, that blood is fresh. You're…" He clinched a fist and shook his head. "Did 'e come in here before…?"  
  
There was silence—she didn't know when they had gone out, so she wouldn't know which _before_ he referred.   
  
Something cold fell within him. Angelus was likely in here enjoying her when he sensed her before.  
  
"You weren't hurting me," she whispered.  
  
"I know, but I'm not gonna risk it."  
  
"Spike, please…" Tears clouded her eyes again. He wondered if they had ever completely gone away. "Please don't leave me here. Not to…"  
  
"I'm gonna find a way to get you out, sweetheart. You're jus'…I'll be back." The platinum vampire emanated a sigh against her shoulder. "I won' let them…I'm not gonna leave you here. You understand me? But they're gonna be back soon, an' I won' do you any good as a pile of a dust."  
  
"He's going to hurt me again."  
  
There was a tightening in his stomach. Spike wanted very much to promise her just the opposite. To assure her that he would find away to get her out before Angelus thought to touch her again. But reality's odds were against him, and he knew better than to make promises he didn't know if he could keep. "I'll try, pet. You gotta be strong for me. Can you do that?"  
  
_Of course she can,_ his mind reasoned. _She's the Slayer._  
  
Within these walls, it didn't matter what she was. She was Buffy. A girl. A woman. Someone needed more strength than the world could offer. Someone who needed _him_.  
  
"Yes," she breathed. And that was all he needed to hear.  
  
Spike nodded and kissed her again. A long, real kiss. Something she needed to feel as much as experience. His lips strayed to her cheek, then her forehead. Anything to promote the idea that she had every reason to believe in him. "Anyone asks," he murmured, "I wasn' here. You don' even know I'm in town. Okay? Hopefully I was around Angelus enough for him to think the scent's not comin' from you. If not, I'll bump into him on purpose."  
  
_He's not gonna fall for that._  
  
Oh well. It was better than nothing.  
  
"All right?"  
  
"All right."  
  
Easy for her. She thought she was dreaming this, anyway.  
  
"I'll come back for you."  
  
Her eyes met his. "Okay."  
  
The platinum Cockney nodded and pursed his lips, loathe to leave her, but he knew he had stayed longer than he should have already. With a final parting kiss, he forced himself to the door, turning away only when it was absolutely necessary.   
  
He didn't get far. Buffy called after him. Small. Inquisitive.   
  
"You're really real?" she asked him when she had his eyes.  
  
The warmest sense of poignancy he had ever experienced flooded him whole. Spreading from nerve ending and trickling trenches over his skin. The hope behind her voice broke him a thousand times over. Hope. Not disgust. Hope, and more relief than he reckoned even he had ever felt.   
  
When she cried again, it would be from happiness.  
  
"Yes, sweetheart," Spike answered hoarsely. "I'm so very, very real."  
  
Buffy nodded at that, and smiled. There it was. His reason. His understanding. His Slayer.   
  
She smiled and it was his everything.  
  
And he would get her out.  
  
Even if it killed him.  
  
**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Three: _Ballad For Dead Friends_…**


	24. Ballad For Dead Friends

**A/N: **Hurrah!  _Harbingers of Beatrice _has been nominated at Vampire's Kiss Awards for Best Long Fic, Best Crossover, and Best WIP.  Also, someone was kind enough to nominate me for Best Author.  Am overwhelmed.  Many, _many_ heartfelt thanks.    

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**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**Ballad For Dead Friends**

The lobby of the Hyperion was encased in darkness, and while this was hardly bizarre, it wasn't difficult to isolate that something was wrong.  Nothing concrete to offer a voice of louder reason.  The men crowding the entry had seen enough of the darker side of humanity to identify an ambiance of trepidation when one was presented.

"Anyone else having a serious Jack Nicholson moment?" Gunn asked when no one spoke.

Nothing for a minute.  Wesley blinked and looked at him oddly.  "Pardon?"

"He's referring to _The Shining," _Wright clarified before the other man could leap inward with amplification.  "You know?  It was a very bad horror movie made in the '80s."

Gunn frowned.  "Bad?"

"If you've read the book," the demon hunter replied with a shrug.  "I've nitpicked at a few books over the years.  You get bored when there are no monsters to kill.  _The Shining _just happened to be one of them, and what Kubrick did to the story—despite the godliness that is him—was just…awful."  

"Movies aren't made to follow books."

"Then they shouldn't include a 'based on' in the opening credits, dumbass."

"As fascinating as this is," Wesley said slowly, venturing a step inward.  "I think there might be matters of greater significance afoot."  His gaze swept the scene before them.  There was still nothing.  Then, quietly, "Spike?"

Zack blinked.  "Why would Spike be here?"

"Well, he did disappear at random from the hunting brigade.  Maybe he found something and wanted to share."

"If Spike was here, he would've greeted us in some undoubtedly unorthodox fashion," the hunter replied wryly.  "No…this is something else…" He stopped, holding up a hand.  "It's…"

Then he wasn't speaking at all.  Before either of his associates could get another word in, Wright had bolted across the lobby and leapt behind the check-in desk.  It was almost amusing—he actually _did _jump over the mini barrier rather than opt for the more logical circumnavigation approach.  

When Wesley and Gunn followed, the found him in the corner with Cordelia, cradling the sobbing Seer against his chest and murmuring comforting reassurances into her hair.

"Oh God, Cordy," the Watcher gasped, hurrying forward.

Gunn was paralyzed with dreaded astonishment. "What happened?" 

There was nothing for a long minute.  Just gentle rocking amidst the soft sobs she cried into the hunter's shoulder.  

"Cordy, are you—"

The instant another step was taken in her direction, she clutched more tightly to Zack and shook her head, mumbling something intelligible.

"What is it?" Wesley asked.

"She says she doesn't wanna talk about it," Wright replied.

The Watcher nodded and cocked his head.  He didn't attempt to approach again, though he similarly made no move to leave her in peace.  In any regard, it wasn't expected.  Something had happened that was worth investigating.  "Cordelia," he said softly.  "Was it a vision?  Did someone hurt you?"

Zack's eyes went wide.  "The girls."  A sense of urgency suddenly corded his muscles, but at the same time, he didn't want to leave her.  He met Gunn's eyes, and the other man nodded his understanding.  

"I'll check it out," came the unneeded reassurance before he disappeared up the staircase.

Neither man seemed to register his sudden absence.  Their eyes met briefly in mutual admittance that whatever had reduced Cordelia to this needed to be singled out before they went any further.  Wesley hated seeing her cry—namely because he had known her long enough to identify that tears on such a tower of strength were not only deeply disturbing, but similar forewarning that something terrible was on the horizon.  

Luckily, she seemed to compose herself without much hindrance.  That was one of the many good things about her.  While she succumbed to the more likely waterworks every now and then, she did not rely on them so much that she found it impossible to stop crying once she started.

"It wasn't…" she began hoarsely.  "The girls are fine."

Wright expelled a sigh of relief, but that didn't stop him from tightening his arms around Cordelia when she tried to sit up.  The entire incident had suddenly made him very protective of her as well, and he wasn't quite ready to let her go.  

Wesley had the same idea.  Cautiously, he leaned next to her, cocking his head to the side.  "Cordy…"

"I'm fine," she replied defensively, sitting up.  The remark earned a foray of skeptical glances.  "What?  I'm…I—"

"Cordy, we saw you," Wright said softly, wiping away a lazy tear from her cheek with his thumb.  The gesture had such gentlemanly softness to it that she glanced to him with wide-eyes that suggested another entourage of weeping.  As though she had not expected that he had it within himself to be so convivial.  "You better tell us what's wrong."

She shuddered within his arms a bit, shaking her head.  "I…"

"Girls are fine," Gunn announced, jumping back into the lobby.  "Is she all right?"

"We don't know," Wesley replied.  His gaze remained trained on them with unmoving precision.  "She won't tell us what's wrong."

At that, the young woman became defensive.  It was actually rather admirable, considering that she looked ready to start crying again at any turn.  Neither Gunn nor the former Watcher were particularly familiar with seeing her in such a state, though while they perturbed an air of discomforted concern, Zack had no such thought to any sort of reaction.  "That's because," she said, glancing back to the demon hunter.  "There's nothing wrong."

"Nothing you wanna tell us, you mean," Gunn clarified.

Wright glanced to him sharply, eyes narrowing.  "Just back down, all right?"

"It might be important.  Cordy, we love you.  You know that, right?  If something happened—"

"It was nothing," she repeated.  "I…" And then trailed off completely, gaze distancing with thoughtful perseverance that took them all by surprise, if not by the implication, than the direct slap that stated whatever it was merited more consideration than any could have foreseen. When she came back to herself, her eyes shone with clarity.  Understanding.  More strength than anyone could have wagered themselves, given her condition of just moments before.  "I need to speak with Zack alone, please."

There was a surprised furrow at that.  The men exchanged curious glances.

It didn't seem so radical a request to Wright.  He helped her to her feet, keeping an arm around her middle as to steady her in case she decide to fall.  The move was likely superfluous, but he needed the reassurance, anyway.  "Right, guys," he said.  "You heard the lady."

Wesley didn't seem convinced.  "Cordelia—"

"I'm fine, Wes.  Just…go home.  See Virginia or something."  She plastered a weak smile on her face and wheedled from Wright's arms to give her friend a hug.  "I wouldn't lie to you."

"I know," he replied.  "It's just…with things as they are…"

She nodded.  "I know.  I love you guys, too.  But this…this doesn't have to do with you.  Okay?"

The Watcher looked at her for a long, reflective moment before nodding his reluctant agreement.  "All right," he murmured.  "All right."  Then, with a sigh of concession, he turned to Gunn and nodded for the doors.  "Come on.  We better go."

The other man was not so easily moved.  A permanent frown seemingly depressed his features, and he was studying her harshly with no other means than a protective older brother.  It was understandable, given the circumstances.  "I don't like this," he said.  "We—"

"Please, Gunn.  I'll see you tomorrow.  Okay?"

Nothing, and finally a nod.  A very reluctant but understanding nod.  "All right."  His gaze turned to Zack's.  "You're staying with her tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Let us know if anything—"

"I will."

"Okay." 

It seemed to be a fairly open and shut case: no one was bleeding, Cordelia hadn't confessed another vision, and all seemed to be within the boundary of control.  Admittedly, it was more than unnerving to see the Seer so bereft with grief—especially when she refused to single a source—but the young woman was far too hardheaded to allow something as insignificant as concern sway her judgment once a decision was made.  It was nearly an ordained miracle when Wesley and Gunn left when they did.  While she was notably not helpless, they both felt a sense of obligation toward her that out measured any exterior persuasion.  

There was an uncomfortable silence when it was left to just two of them.  Zack and Cordelia glanced to each other uneasily.

"Ummm," he said.  "I'm going to go check on the girls."

"They're fine."

He smiled understandingly.  "Yeah. Well, maybe when you have kids, you'll understand."

"Nikki's your kid?"

At that, he paused, eyes wide.  "Good God, no!"

"Didn't think so."

A pause.  Wright appeared genuinely affronted.  "Do I really look that old?  Honestly?"

Cordelia grinned, though it was only a shadow of her usual glower.  The sheen of dried tears glimmered lightly off her face, and while neither wagered her as likely to break down again, there was innate fragility in her tenor.  "Well, I dunno," she mused speculatively.  It was odd to hear a voice that was usually bathed in its own confidence quiver without tangible suggestion.  "Maybe if you shaved and smiled a bit more, like I said earlier."  It was natural: Zack scowled, and provoked a small chuckle.  "Or do the exact opposite.  Whichev."

"This is getting back at me for calling Wes old, isn't it?"

"Ummm…sure."

His eyes narrowed at her.  "Yeah.  Uh huh.  I'll be right back."

The girls were fine, though he had known they would be.  A picture he had seen a thousand times.  Nikki was curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow where she kept a stake, just in case it was needed.  He had told her that such precautions were not necessary while guests in the Hyperion due to the enhanced invitation charm, but she didn't care.  It was habit, after all, and she couldn't sleep properly if there wasn't a weapon within convenient reach.

Rosalie was on the opposite bed, wrapped like a hotdog in her sheets.  The sheets themselves had been a godsend: Wright hadn't known the hotel to have extra accommodations, though he reckoned that Cordelia had snagged them from Angel's room.  No one had approached the Hyperion's missing caretaker's quarters with any means of getting rest there.  Zack knew for a fact that Spike had avoided it the night before, and he, while he conventionally lacked the same reasons, had followed suit.  Perhaps it was silent suggestion.  Despite his knowledge on the Aurelius family, Angelus himself was a face left to text rather than experience, his encounter the previous night notwithstanding.

Wright figured, aside the obligatory abhorrence for vampires, that he disliked Angelus because he had gotten himself a soul.  In a roundabout way, had the monster remained the monster, he never would have registered as a twinkle in Darla's eye.  Sure, people would have died.  Many people would have died, but Amber would have lived.  She would have lived, and he would never have known about vampires, demons, or other uglies that went bump in the night.

Purely selfish reasoning, of course.

At least, that had been the consensus.  The people he knew now had given him something back.  Wesley and Gunn, even Spike. His thoughts drifted to Cordelia downstairs.  The idea of not knowing her did not rest well with him.  He didn't know if he had been out of the loop too long, if he was merely reaching for a connection that had been sorely missing from his life, or if he was seeing something that wasn't there, but that didn't change the radical dive his feelings had taken.  Slowly at first.  Little things. 

Seeing her sobbing like that had been one of the single most horrifying moments in his life.  Not quite tying with two others, but he had long since stopped counting.  After all that had happened, all that had led him here, he couldn't stand it if another one of his girls got hurt.  Rosie was all right.  Nikki was all right.  Cordelia was not, even if she attempted to deny it.  She was a pillar of strength, he had to admit.  Even Amber at her best couldn't have witnessed and done the things that the Seer had with such a cheery, open-minded disposition.

And still, the thought of moving on in that regard sickened him.  Thoroughly sickened him.  As though there was some clause that demanded he remain faithful, body and soul, to a dead woman.  He didn't know whom to resent: her or himself.

Better to get downstairs.  Apart from everything else, he didn't want to leave her for too long.  The girls were fine: that was all he needed to know.

Wright found Cordelia in much the same state that he had left her.  She had moved to one of the sofas in the middle of the lobby and was sipping at a cup of hot tea.  He smiled.  A tower of strength.  Even towers had their off days.  She was visibly worn, fatigued from an emotional outburst, and more than slightly disturbed to have been caught in such a state.  

A flicker and she glanced up.

"Hey."

The smile on his face broadened.  She spoke as though he was a friend visiting for the weekend.  

"Hey."

"Girls all right?"

"Yeah.  Sleeping."

A shadow of a smirk crossed her face.  "Told yah."

Wright's grin remained but he didn't reply; instead completed en route down the staircase and assumed a seat in the chair opposite her.  They sat in companionable silence for a few seconds—enjoying the art of not speaking—before acknowledgement that discussing what had happened was inevitable, and more than needed for the refinement of understanding.

Things grew serious before a syllable could be uttered.  He didn't know that that had ever happened to him.

He was glad she was the first to speak.  The last thing he wanted was to coax her into submission without rightful prompt.  And yet, her words chilled the already cold air around them, and rendered him thoroughly frozen.

"She was pretty."

Such a small statement.  Three little words.  Nothing specific, and yet he knew what she was talking about.  Wright wasn't aware that he was staring at her until Cordelia shifted uncomfortably and averted her eyes with a note of the same. 

Then she was rambling, and that was never good.  

"Really, from what I saw, Rosie looks just like her.  Well, you got the blonde thing going.  Where did the blonde come from?  Brown plus brown equals blonde?  Maybe it was something on your parent's side.  But totally—the eyes.  The eyes are, like, the same.  I can—"

Zack grasped her wrist suddenly, his own eyes seeking hers.  "You saw her."

A trembling breath slipped passed Cordelia's lips, and she nodded, gaze fogging again with the shimmer of unshed tears.  "I saw her," she replied hoarsely.  "Oh God.  I…there was…over and over again.  So much pain.  So much…so much rage.  I hadn't felt anything like that since…well, last year, when the visions wouldn't stop and I felt like my head was about to explode.  It was so vivid.  I felt it.  I felt everything that bitch did to her."  A sob rattled her system, and she caressed her mouth with the back of her hand.  "I can't…it was…and then you.  I felt what you felt, and I…" It didn't take much: her entire body gave way to the tremors it could not prevent, and sank slowly against the cushions of an unmade haven.  "I'm so sorry," she gasped.  "So…so…"

"You have nothing to be sorry about."

"But I felt it, Zack.  You don't understand.  I felt it.  I felt everything."  She shook her head and tried to turn away, but he wouldn't let her.  It was important to maintain a form of eye contact, even if it wasn't wanted.  _"Everything.  _Her.  You.  Even Rosie, I think.  On a level.  It was…and I don't know why!  It's not like it's something I can get everyone on.  It's not like I can tell Wes and Gunn to pile up the car with stakes and crosses so we bust a cap to go save her.  It happened, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do.  I feel helpless, and I…I'm _never _helpless.  It's—"

That struck a chord he did not wish to investigate, even if it was for the better.  "I know."

"Sensory overload.  God, it's never been like that before.  I've never felt _everything _before."  She shook her head.  "And it was tearing me apart.  It didn't last long, but it felt like forever.  It felt like—"

"I'm sorry we didn't get here sooner."

There was a cold pause and her gaze met his again, once again cascaded with tears that she did not want.  And then, anger.  Random but real anger.  She jumped to her feet and wiped at her eyes irately.  "Would you stop already?" 

Wright frowned.  "Stop what?"

"This!  Stop…stop just pretending that you're concerned about me, all right?  I know now.  I know everything.  I get why you're here.  Why you want Darla dead so much."  Her hands fisted.  "God, she was right here.  Right _fucking _here and Wes and I didn't just…kill her like we should have.  'Cause Angel had to go on his all holy quest only to find out that—hey—she couldn't be saved.  She was gonna die and there was nothing his redemptive ass could do about it."  Cordelia stopped again, anger subsiding in waves.  "There are only so many lines a person can cross before redemption's not listed under the options section of the _How To Live As A Dead Person_ guidebook." 

Zack rose to his feet.  "I wasn't pretending."

"That's swell.  But I can't make it stop."  She clutched at her chest.  "I can't make it stop.  I just keep seeing it over and over and over again.  I can even…" A painful pause.  "I can even hear her laughing.  Darla laughing as she…as she _butchered—"_

That was too much.  He held up a hand and closed his eyes tightly.

"I'm sorry," Cordelia whispered after a minute.

"I am, too.  Sorry you had to see that.  Go through it."  He shook his head and glanced away.  "It was hard enough the first time.  Doesn't get any easier, either.  Turning into who I am.  Doing what I do."

A thoughtful pause.  "You do good, though.  You've done a lot of good."

"I've done my fair share of bad, too."

"I think that comes with being human, sweetie.  Just the way things are."  A sigh coursed through her lips.  "Though I can definitely see why trusting Spike was a big for you.  Hell, I was there for the entire 'Angel goes bonkers, take one' and I still…I forgave him.  Came and worked for him.  Saved him from being hot-pokered to death by Spike."

Wright quirked a brow.  "Someday, you're gonna have to tell me that story, start to finish."

"It was before he was a good guy."  She shrugged.  

"You call Spike a good guy?"

"Despite my new and improved position against all things vampy? Yeah."  Cordelia smiled thinly.  "He's one of us.  Besides…you were able to see passed the fangs."

"Took me a while."

She gave him a skeptical glance.  "It's only been a few days."

"Felt longer.  And I haven't given him a clean bill of…whatever you give vampires."  Wright frowned.  "But I see…sometimes I see so much of me in him.  What he's doing for this chick."

"Buffy."

He made a face.  "Horrible name."

Cordelia chuckled in agreement.  "I think her real name's Elizabeth or something normal like that.  I dunno.  The girl was always on the wrong side of weird back in high school.  Of course, she had the slaying thing and the typical 'whoa is me, my boyfriend's a bloodsucking fiend from beyond the grave' thing going for her.  The Angel and Buffy show.  Really wish we'd had a mute button."

"And now she's Spike's girl."

"Well, Spike wants her to be his girl.  There's a big difference."  She frowned.  "I hope he knows what he's doing, or realizes it, anyway.  Buffy and I were never close for the obvious reasons, but I do remember her being a little on the _high and mighty _side when it came to vamps."

Wright gave her an obvious look.  "Well, she _is_ the Slayer.  From what I've heard about those the past few days, it's sorta her duty to not allow vampires clemency."

"Even with what Spike is doing for her?  Risking for her?"

"Spike's said he doesn't expect anything in return."

"And you believe that?"

"Yes."  He held up a hand in clarification.  "But that doesn't mean he doesn't _want _anything in return.  He just knows he's not gonna get it.  And I see myself in that.  More so than I wish I did."

Cordelia pursed her lips thoughtfully.  "This is purely on a Seer level," she said after a minute.  "But…I think you two were in the same state before you met.  And despite however little you like it; you're bringing out the humanity in each other, because you can see where it needs to go.  You said you see yourself in him.  Maybe he sees himself in you, too.  Maybe he sees what will happen to him if he…if he can't save her."

There was a pause.  Wright smiled ironically.  "He'll turn into some self-loathing demon hunter who can't see but from kill to kill, and doesn't stop even when he knows it's destroying him?"

"No."  She took several bold steps toward him, gaze steady and intent.  Another odd whim.  He had never known a woman who could go from crying one minute to looking so damned courageous and determined the next.  He had always boasted Amber's strength and independence, but he didn't know now if he had seized the full grasp of his own initiative.   "Instead of doing all the saving, he'll become someone who needs to _be_ saved just as badly. And he'll be too proud to admit it when he needs help."

What followed remained perpetually in a blur.  Wright felt something warm brush against his lips—soft, pliable, and aching with as much wrought tension and liberation as he had ever thought to give or receive.  It was delicious.   Bold.  God, it was another first.  The girls of his past had usually been too shy to make such an audacious move, even if it was birthed from friendship rather than sensuality.  New, boisterous, and wonderful, and gone too quickly. Cordelia smiled at him warmly with kindness he reckoned she didn't even know she possessed and made to pass him with a note of the same.  "Good night."

Only, somehow, he couldn't allow it to rest at that.  Not after being given a sample of something he had denied himself for the better part of a decade.  Before he could gouge the consequences of his actions, he had grasped her by the arm and drawn her mouth back to his.  Needing, hot, and relentless.  A surge of cool relief flooded him when she did not challenge him, rather sank in with the same note of surrender.  Whatever battle he had thought to come to blows with tonight was over.  And after years of denying himself anything that could be regarded as a human touch, he was ready to drown.

She understood.  Fully.  Of everyone that had tried to break down his wall, she had succeeded.  Because she felt it just as real as he did.

Too soon it was over.  They pulled apart gasping.

"Wow," she breathed.

"Yeah," he agreed, a little dazed.  "Sorry, it's…it's just been so long."

"I didn't mean to…that wasn't what I was trying—"

"I know."

They were silent for a few more minutes.  Heaving needlessly and studying each other without trade.  Something there that neither wanted to approach.  Something to be saved for another time.

"Well," Cordelia said, clearing her throat and stepping aside.  "I'm…ummm…going to go to bed.  Use…well, I guess Angel's room is the only room that's all bed-ready."

"I can take you home, if you like."

"No.  I'd rather…ummm…stay here."  She offered a weak smile.  "Little late to be going out again.  Besides, your girls'd be all by themselves."

He nodded.  "Yeah.  They would."

Another moment.  Another nod.  And a look of affability.  "Goodnight, Zack."

Cordelia made it halfway up the stairs before he stopped her.

Wright looked perplexed by his own request for a minute, wrestling with thoughts and words until they met on a similar axis.  And when he spoke, it was more than heartfelt.  "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being one to save me."  He grinned slightly.  "For being that damned stubborn."

A pause before she smiled.  Zack made a note then to get her to smile as often as possible.  

"Anytime," she replied with a wink.  Then disappeared into the darkness of the upper chambers.  Up with the others.  Nikki and Rosie.  

His girls.

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Four: _Bleeding From Yesterday_…**


	25. Bleeding From Yesterday

**A/N**: More coolness.  Have received several more nominations at Vampire's Kiss.  _Sang et Ivoire _is up for Best Angst, Best Spike POV, and Most Original Plot.  _Cupidity _is up for Best Spike POV, Best UST, and Best Revamped.  You all are _awesome.  _Completely awesome.  Thank you for the nominations!

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**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**Bleeding From Yesterday**

The day started on an early, almost serene note. Naturally, this led to general apprehension. The phone refused to ring, the doors refused to admit customers, and there had been no word from Spike in nearly thirty-six hours. None that anyone could attest as tangible. His concerns about being discovered by Angelus and the others had yet to be determined. Wright ventured to Caritas alongside Gunn half a dozen times to establish if any word had come in, but the lines of communication remained intensely and indefinitely severed.

There was one thing the four shared in spades: the communal abhorrence for being sitting ducks.

Tedium at Angel Investigations was something that hadn't been a major concern for quite some time. Cordelia shared a few tales of similar boredom with Wright over another nutritional McDonalds breakfast, earning a grin or two to coincide with the unabated awe on his face. It was different, she knew. After having been on the road for so long, following lead after lead of new information, hearing of people who spent entire days—and weeks, pending—without anything to go on seemed damn near impossible. Especially in a city like Los Angeles.

There were other things to discuss. She shared over coffee several interesting Buffy-related stories from Sunnydale. The Graduation incident in which the entire senior class banded together to destroy a giant snake-shaped mayor. He heard of her adventures with someone named Xander Harris—on particularly eyebrow-raising story about a man made of bugs and serious smoochies in the Slayer's basement that led to subsequent smoochies wherever dark area was located. He laughed when she told him about battling Buffy for Homecoming Queen, only to lose full count. He provided false sympathy when she related the story of finding Xander and someone named Willow involved in serious kissage while being held Spike's prisoner, and consequentially ignored the dirty smirk she gave him in turn. He even listened to the dull-as-dust stories involving the 'Cordettes' and their various extravaganzas. It was all riveting. Amazing. As though something he remembered vaguely, but from a long while ago.

"You're still very young," he observed.

"I turned twenty last month," she retorted with a shrug. Then her look became suspicious. "Why? How old are you?"

Wright smiled. "Well, I was married in college, was widowed three years after, and Rosie's almost nine. You do the math."

Cordelia made a face. "Have I mentioned that math wasn't my best subject?"

"Only a thousand or so times." There was a pause. "It's considerable…the age difference."

"What, give or take ten years?" She looked unimpressed. "Honey, Buffy and Angel were separated by centuries."

He flashed a cheeky grin. "Comparing us to the infamous 'star-crossed lovers'? For shame! Were you thinking of something else?"

"Don't call them 'star-crossed.' Spike'd have your head for that. Besides, I don't think that applies when one of the aforementioned lovers is torturing the daylights out of the other." She frowned and shook her head. "And hey—buddy—you're the one who brought it up."

"Just wanted to let you know, in case you couldn't keep your hands off me."

Cordelia stuck out her tongue. "Perv."

Wright smirked, completely unashamed. "Yup. Color me one dirty old man."

"You're not old. Well, not really." There was a sigh and an inevitable shrug. "Okay, so a little, considering. If you sit down and do a serious contrast and compare. But still. No big. Age wasn't really a huge deal for me. Never was. I mean, hello. As I've said, Angel's had a freakin' bicentennial, and Spike's gotta be _way _up there."

"He's a hundred and twenty seven," Wright replied automatically. He ducked his head at the amazed look she gave him in turn. "Sorry. I _do_ my homework."

"Obviously." Cordelia snickered. "What? Did you not have some brainy friend to copy off of?"

"I did, but he was much too honest to let me cheat. Had to make the grades, myself."

"You see, when you live on a Hellmouth, cheating doesn't exactly strike as a deadly sin." She shrugged. "Ah, well. Willow never really helped me, anyway. She was always more Buffy's friend than mine."

"You sound like you were a very different person in high school."

"I was a total bitch in high school."

Wright shrugged. "Knew me a few of them."

"Well, at least I've grown enough as a person that I can admit that now."

He grinned. "Yes you can." There was a brief but complacent silence as they considered each other—then Zack jolted to a start and flashed a glance at his watch. "Ah, fuck. I gotta run. The boys and I are gonna swing by Caritas, then do a sweep of the territory the vamps covered last night."

"You're going by Caritas again?"

A shrug. "Gotta at least try to keep the lines of communication open." He was suddenly leaning over the check-in counter, scribbling something down on the first scrap of paper his fingers touched. "I don't like the idea of leaving you alone—" he began absently.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Because of my spaz-fest last night? Really, I'm—"

"—but seeing as I have no choice, here's my pager number." He glanced up, all tease from his eyes having vanished. "Don't blow it off like that. A 'spaz-fest'. It was more to me than that. It was more to _you _than that. Right?"

There was an intense moment of introspection. She was too lost in his eyes to reply at first. Then a sharp jerk and a corresponding nod. Offering something more than the volume of her voice could attest. "Yeah…erm…yes. It was. I just…my defense mechanism is to make everything—"

"I know." He smiled. "Mine, too." Another brief minute of silence. "I mean it, Cordy. Page me if you have another fit."

"Hey! It wasn't—"

"And watch the girls for me. Don't let Nikki give you any shit." Before she could register what happened, Zack had leaned far across the counter to give her a brief, however evocative kiss before he bolted across the lobby. It left her winded for seconds after he disappeared, and forced her down another spiral of self-analysis that she wasn't sure she was ready for.

The reflective silence she was going for didn't last long. Within five minutes of solitude, the entry doors swung open again. Cordelia plastered on a smile and peeked into the hallway, witty retort about pagers and obligation curled and waiting on her lips before she caught the face of the man in the lobby. 

A face so foregone, she nearly didn't recognize it.

"…Lindsey?"

The lawyer from Wolfram and Hart—the very same she had come to loathe on principle given the events of the past year—blinked at her dazedly before realizing he had been addressed. While they weren't terribly acquainted, give or take a haphazard alliance in the past, she knew him well enough to gouge the look on his face detailed more agony than any expression she had seen him adorn before.

"Cordelia," he muttered. "I…I need help."

*~*~*

Before falling in love with the Slayer, Spike wagered he had never spent more than five minutes in the course of his unlife worrying extendedly about anything or anyone. Everything had fallen at a general give-or-take level of acceptance. He couldn't bear the thought of anything more. Even with the saga that was Drusilla, he hadn't lost much sleep over it. Her infidelity, while it dug trenches, was nearly a part of the general acceptance. He had known that from the start—Angelus made very certain that he understood that while the insane vampire had chosen him, her daddy would always be the preferred lover.

A century could do wonders to one's perception. Angelus had only been with them for two decades before he got himself all souled up and rat-happy. From there, it had been easy street. Killing and fucking all the livelong day. Getting into messes only to assuredly get out of them. Prague presented the first problem that he couldn't readily talk himself out of, but once they escaped, he hadn't worried too much. True, he had spent his every waking minute hunting for the cure to his beloved's ailment, but there wasn't much worrying involved. Just tedious research and nonstop wanking, seeing as Drusilla was in no condition to readily solve his sexual urges every time he got them. 

Falling in love with Buffy had turned his world upside down in more than the obvious ways. For days, he had tormented himself with thoughts of her. Debated once even taking a drill to his head as to bore the seemingly random affection out of his head. Never his heart, of course, because it wasn't really there—and he had never been wholly serious, even if he had taken comfort in that. At very first. Until it became abundantly clear that he was indeed in love with her, and so helpless was his case that he had remained blind to it even as it had obviously been there since their general acquaintance. 

After admitting his impossible feelings to himself—and similarly after surpassing the phase where he bumbled stupidly outside her house, debating and fighting the urge to storm in like a madman and demand she hand over his unlife, please—Spike had experienced something a century could not have prepared him for. All out concern. The knowledge that Slayers were creatures of a limited lifespan. That she had already surpassed her due date. And yes, she was the best of the best. She was fucking poetry itself, but even that failed to comfort. So he watched her. And loved her; worried himself a little more dead each day that his own words would come to pass. That some grizzly night thing would have itself one good day, and she would be taken from him forever.

It astonished him how deeply his feelings ran. How strong his love had become after its acceptance into limelight. He had spent a century with Drusilla—a fucking century—and never come close to this sort of agonized bliss. From the looks that crossed her face when he touched her, to the bittersweet taste of her mouth when they kissed. It was impossible to compare, impossible to believe there had been existence before her. That he had lived without this mammoth love swallowing his insides. The want of purity above death. The weight of tears he felt depressed upon his nonbeating heart when he thought of her. When her voice echoed her relief that he was there, that he was real, when nothing else could possibly ring as true.

Spike still wasn't thoroughly convinced that she believed him when he vouched for his own tangibility. The idea that she could have dreamt of him while having no reason to was beyond vexing, even if he relished its taste. But God, the pangs he felt now were unsurpassable by any other feat he had known. Angelus had made no mention of her yet, even when he thought he would. Even after he disappeared and reappeared hours later, Slayer smell rank on his clothing, he offered no explanation and similarly made no move to conceal himself. He also didn't comment on the potential of the peroxide vampire's presence in that very death chamber during his disappearance at their hunt. Oh no, the Cockney had made quite sure of that. He had showered himself thoroughly, fed off a few more townspeople without killing them, then proceeded to get himself thoroughly pissed at some low-ranking pub. There was no doubting _that _smell, or the telling wobble in his stride.

But Buffy smelled of him. He knew that. She smelled of him, and her quarters were drenched in the heat of her unquenched arousal. He hadn't had the courage to push her over that threshold, and perhaps it was for the best. A climax was certainly more telling on the nose.

At least, as was per his experience.

It was difficult business not staking Angelus outright when Spike saw him next. Knowing what he knew. Having felt her blood between his fingers, and knowing why it was there. Knowing whom had tainted her precious body with his calloused, hateful presence. Knowing whom had made her bleed. 

Knowing that he had hurt his girl. 

_His girl._

There were several truths to be reckoned with. His worrying was going to drive him out of his mind if his fury did not beat him to it. And there had to be a way to get access to Buffy's manacles without attracting attention to himself. Were it anyone else, Spike would bump into his grandsire at random and snag the key the old-fashioned way. But it wasn't anyone else, and there was no way the great billowing sod would fall for that. Didn't bloody matter how _good _the peroxide vampire was at petty theft. Didn't matter that he had paid for more than his fair share of drinks without paying for them at all. Didn't matter that Xander Harris had served as his steady income monthslongafter his relocation into the Restfield Cemetery. 

No. None of that mattered. Because this wasn't some glorified carpenter. This was Angelus. And he would know.

He always fucking did.

There was only one foreseeable option tight now. He had to return to the Hyperion and consort with the others. Let them know what he knew. Let them know what was happening to her. Demand resolution until they had an acceptable answer. An acceptable variation of the more grim reality. 

The happenings around Wolfram and Hart seemed to be on a very give and take basis. Angelus and Darla had spent most of the day basking and fucking and eating whatever they could find. On occasion, some lawyer bint named Lilah Morgan would send down an impressionable intern to be made into a hearty snack. Under different circumstances, Spike suspected that he might like Lilah: it wasn't often that he encountered a modern human woman with the morality of a politician. And while it was more than obvious that her actions were modeled for self-benefit rather than any notion of appeasing his enemies, their status alone separated them on the greater spectrum of things. 

Time to go back to the Hyperion.  Definitely.  To the others.

They would get her out.

*~*~*

It amazed her that after everything she had seen, and more importantly done, that Cordelia still managed to be captured by the propensity in which little things could progress from _bad _to _worse._

Lindsey had been in the lobby for two minutes, disheveled and more than a little defeated, when the doors flew open once more and Kate Lockley paraded inward.  She wore an expression that could freeze Hell, though the determination on her face looked more prone to raise it.  

"I'm having trouble with this," she said sternly as means of salutation.  "You want to know why?"

Cordelia frowned and fought the temptation to bang her head against the desk.  "Because those shoes _really _don't match your top?"

That didn't seem to help.  Lockley brushed passed a dumbfound Lindsey without tossing him a second glance and slammed what looked to be a police file on the front desk.  "I'm having trouble with _this, _Ms. Chase.  _Twelve _reports from different victims with distinguishing marks on their necks.  Notice anything familiar?"  She didn't give her time to explain.  "A man with peroxide hair and a notably Cockney brogue?  You _assured _me that he was safe!"

"He is!" the brunette snapped, leaping to her feet.  "Else those twelve would be _dead _and not filing police reports."

"So you're telling me that it's all right that a loose vampire feeds on people as long as he maintains that they don't die.  Let's not count how much blood loss was sustained.  How many hospital bills are piling on innocent victims without insurance."  She slammed her open palm to the clement surface.  "These are still assault charges, Cordelia.  Innocent people—"

"If I may intervene," Lindsey volunteered.  "As a lawyer, I can attest that while some are better than others, the term _innocent people _is—"

"Shut up," both women snapped.

"I'm afraid that's impossible.  My interest is piqued."  Lindsey glanced to Cordelia with a quirked brow.  "Spike?  What's your connection with Spike?"

"And that falls under the category of 'questions I am least likely to answer,'" she retorted with an unpleasant smile.  "Especially to the right-hand man of Evil Incorporated, who, by the by, kidnapped the Slayer."  

"That's why I'm here."  

"Oh really?"

"You ought to know.  I was the one who informed you of Angel's transformation, wasn't I?"

She frowned.  "Yes.  You were also the one who initiated said transformation."

"I was never in favor of it.  That was Holland's idea."

"And what a _fantastic _idea it was."

"He's dead now, if it's any consolation."

"Because of a party I let Angel break in on," Lockley added irately.  "If I had kept him in custody—"

"You and everyone else would have been killed," Lindsey finished.  "Trust me, Detective, you don't know Angelus half as well as you think you do.  The books you've piled through?  The facts you've memorized?  Words on paper.  That's all they are.  They can't _begin _to measure up to what he is.  What he's done."  His voice quieted.  "The things I've seen him do."

"The things you've _let _him do, you mean," Kate snapped.

"I didn't have a choice."

"Oh.  Rich.  Didn't have a choice except to allow him to instate chaos all over town.  Do you have any _idea _how many people lost their lives last night?"  The cool blonde turned her icy gaze back to Cordelia, blazing with contempt.  "For every person that your friend didn't kill last night, your boss killed double.  That doesn't account for the multiple reports that compile what Darla and Drusilla did with their…do you have _any _conception of—"

"Your friend?" Lindsey demanded, again cutting through uncaringly.  "You put him there, didn't you?  Spike.  There's no other—"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

There was no way he was falling for that.  Cordelia was an expert liar even if she wasn't a keen actress, but the remark itself fell flat between the convenient woes of both parties.  Instead, his eyes narrowed and he appraised her with a disbelieving glance.  "Yes you do," he said softly.  "I…God, I wish I'd known sooner."

That was it.  The brunette's eyes went wide with conspiracy.  "What?" she demanded, monotone.  "What did you do?"

"I haven't done anything," he said.  "Not as of the recent.  But I did send a small group of mercenary vamps to take care of the problem.  They're dust, just so you know.  He and some rogue killed every one, according to…I just wish I'd known."

Cordelia rolled her eyes.  "Well, you know now.  Live with it."

"You don't know what I've been putting myself through," he snapped, suddenly embittered.  "Watching…oh God.  Watching what he's done to her!"

"Spike?"

"No, Angelus."  Lindsey started pacing, a trait that looked odd on him, even if it was needed.  "The things I've seen him do…because he's bored.  Because it's _fun.  _Because it's her."  He shook his head.  "I had a half mind to do something myself if I didn't think it end up killing us both.  It's not…"

The undeclared conviction of _right _hung over them like a cloud ready to burst.  It was conductive notice.  Despite however much McDonald's disposition seemed and likely was legitimate, marking his motives as _right _was far and beyond anything that Cordelia was openly comfortable with.

"You've been video monitoring everything that Angel does?" Kate asked softly.

"Yes."

"Does he know?"

Lindsey's eyes widened comically.  "Know?  Are you kidding me?  You really think I'd be standing here if he _knew?"_  He sighed and shook his head.  "If Spike is really—"

"He's really," Cordelia intervened resolutely.  "Trust me."

"I don't have a choice but to."  He glanced to the ground, to Lockley, and to the ground again.  "We'll have to figure out some way to get her out of there.  He has better access than I do, even if I don't believe Angelus has told him about her yet.  That she's still alive."

"So you don't know if he's found her yet?"

He shrugged.  "I haven't looked at last night's tapes from the security feed.  It didn't seem necessary, with all of them out on the town."

"Murdering innocents," Kate muttered under her breath.

Lindsey's hands came up and he gave her a narrowed look.  "You want to try and stop them, Detective?" he asked rhetorically.  "Be my guest."

"They'll just kill you dead," Cordelia agreed with a shrug.

Lockley glared at her.  "Ms. Chase, with all due respect, there's every possibility that I will be 'killed dead' every day on this job.  That doesn't change the description much, does it?  I refuse to stand idly by while people are out there being maimed and murdered and god-knows-what-else.  I don't have time for this."

"Neither do I," the lawyer said.  "Whatever you and yours are planning to do needs to be done quickly.  Angel is…while his torment of her is as active as ever…he—"

She held up a hand.  "Fine.  Right.  Whatever.  Listen Lindsey, you came to us.  All right?  You want in, you're gonna have to play by our rules.  That means no staking my friends, especially when they're there to help you.  That also means no changing your mind once the deed is done, like _some _have done in the past.  See if you can talk to Spike or something.  I know for a _fact _that he'll have more than one idea on how to get her out of there.  The guy talks of nothing else."  She turned to Kate.  "You.  I don't care what you do.  Just stay out of our way."

"Is your friend going to continue biting innocents?"

Lindsey coughed.  Loudly.

Cordelia, in turn, offered a falsely sweet smile.  "Hon," she said.  "It's better than what Angelus would do.  Remember that.  And yes, he is, if it means getting the Slayer out.  You don't understand—Spike's on a one-track street.  Biting people means trust by crazy family means access to Slayer means saveage and hopefully much-deserved smoochies."

"He's really in love with her?" Lindsey asked, astonished.

"That's none of your business, buddy.  Just get back to Wolfram and Hart and see if you can dig up anything useful."  The brunette sighed deeply and shook her head, gaze averting to the ground.  "Just…do it, okay?  Whatever's going to be done needs to be in the _now."  _She paused, the first hint of worry that she had thought to betray since the situation flew so drastically out of hand pouring through her eyes.  There.  Calm.  Resolute.  More than tangible: stressed and far from defeated.  Cordelia refused to concede defeat; it was in her nature.  She reckoned she would be fighting until long after the battle had concluded.

Either way, that did not stop or alter what was already known.  A fact strained with more calamitous consequence than any she thought to convey.

"We're running out of time."

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Five: _Kiss The Flame_…**


	26. Kiss The Flame

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**Kiss The Flame**

The last thing he expected upon arrival was to be greeted with a hearty dose of aversion, and yet it was received in spades. Firstly by the less-than-amiable look delivered by the woman he recognized to be Detective Kate Lockley, and next for the groan that slipped through Cordelia's lips as her head collapsed wearily on the front counter. 

"Let me guess," she said in manner of greeting. "You didn't talk to Lindsey."

Spike arched a brow. "Lindsey? Yay tall? Lawyer type with a baby face an' a poncy name? Nope, can't say that I have. Not since the operation, anyway."

"Great. Just great." 

"Ummm…jus' for the means of curiosity, but why?"

"He was just here," Lockley intervened, her tone cold but moderate. "Evidently, the two of you have been playing at a crossroads."

The peroxide vampire stared at her blankly. "Whassat?"

Another low moan perturbed Cordelia's disposition, whose features were still buried in her arms. "This thing," she said, muffled. "Lindsey's on an all out rescue-Buffy warpath. And he's been having a major wig about it ever since…ever."

There was a pause. Spike arched a brow coolly, calm and determined to remain reasonable. "'S that so?" he demanded. "Funny, 'cause I coulda sworn he was one of the prats who set this entire thing up in the bloody firs' place. Guess life's a li'l ironic like that, huh?"

At that, Lockley's eyes widened with blazes of unkempt fury that he hadn't noted before. A fire burning with a low enough glow to remain unnoticed until the final sparks were close enough to set the world alight with a thousand torches. "You wanna talk irony?" she spat. "Like, how you say you want to protect your Slayer, and yet I somehow wind up with a dozen assault reports that match a man of your description?"

Cordelia cleared her throat, attention stirred again. "Ummm, that's not irony, Kate," she corrected. "It's hypocrisy. And didn't we already cover this?"

Spike scowled. "I am _not _a bloody hypocrite. I did what I had to."

"Yeah, what you had to," Lockley agreed snidely, planting her hands on her hips. "Funny how that just happened to coincide with sinking those fangs of yours into the necks of civilians all across town and the destruction of ten thousand dollars in public property."

Cordelia frowned. "You didn't mention that."

"I'm mentioning it now."

"Oh." Her brow furrowed in consideration before turning to Spike with a flash of incredulous awe. "Ten thousand dollars? What did you _do _last night?"

He shrugged. "Li'l of this, li'l of that. The usual."

There was an irritated snicker from Lockley. She did not look impressed. "Well, that _usual's _going to cost you."

A darker scowl befouled his features at that; one that he could not prevent if he tried. "Listen, you ignorant bint," he snarled. "Considerin' my record, you oughta be glad that's the worst that happened. Remember me? Dangerous vampire here. The same I distinctly I recall you sayin' you'd read up on. Gave me a li'l lecture on the basics of my own sodding kind. I'm here for one purpose only: get the Slayer out. 'F a few bystanders 'appen to get knicked in the process, so bloody be it. I couldn't give a lick."

The brunette woman snickered at that. "I suppose it's too late to tell you not to take anything that Kate says personally," she advised. "She just hates vamps."

"Yeah, I do," the detective agreed. "And this one's not climbing on my list."

Spike leaned forward provocatively, eyes widening with a bit of the same dynamism. "Not my problem," he growled. "Listen, I wager you have some tragic sob story to account for your vamp aversion. Guess what: not the bloody firs'. I know me quite a few blokes who've had a bit of the same over the years."

There was an uncomfortable rustling from Cordelia at that. He glanced up and met her eyes. One fleeting glance was all it took. One glance on mutual territory, and they knew each other.

"This has nothing to do with me," Lockley spat.

"You're right. It doesn'," Spike agreed, snapping back to attention. "Give us a ring when _you've _figured it out."

"Kate can help us," Cordelia offered softly. 

"She was our link to Wolfram an' Hart. That job's been passed on to me. She can leave."

"No, she really can't." The brunette stood at that and navigated around the desk, ignoring his skeptical expression. "I know it's not exactly a position to be desired, Spike, but let's face it. Our options, our allies…kinda running on the low side, wouldn't you say? We need all the help we can get."

The peroxide vampire's gaze did not alleviate. "Not from tarty bints who think themselves so bloody better than the lot of us."

"And—ehm—excuse me, but it is _Buffy _that we're saving, isn't it?"

He frowned. "Not funny, pet."

"But _oh so _true. And admit it: if she wasn't Miss Waiting To Be Saved, you'd be the first to say so." Cordelia appraised him with an expectant glance, but her grin faded almost instantly at the look on his face—her eyes going wide with horror. "Oh God. I'm sorry. Was it something I said? I—"

Spike held up a hand, blinking to the realization that while he had drifted, the moment had been fleeting and it was likely a wonder that the brunette had caught on at all. "'S all right," he said. "'S jus'…I saw her."

A dump truck full of pins wouldn't have registered a peep in the room.

"What?" Lockley demanded, astonished. She didn't recognize her own voice for its bewilderment until it tainted the air. Knowledge of the Slayer's status hadn't previously presented much room for attention, but it was safe to say that her interest was piqued. 

"You saw her?" Cordelia repeated. "And she…and you…well, where the fuck is she? Is she okay? Is she hurt? Did—"

The defeat waving across Spike's features was heartbreaking. The same confessed time and time again for the strains of his own incompetence in the matter. This bloody not knowing of where to go. What to do, if only to refer to the mission statement that something had to be done before everything was lost. "She…" he said, voice growing distant and hoarse without suggestion. "God, he's…he's all but butchered her."

"So, why is she still there? Why didn't you—"

The vampire's eyes narrowed. "You honestly think that we'd be havin' this conversation 'f that'd been a bloody option?"

"Well, no. But—"

"They've got her fixed in these shackles that can't be broken. Very posh. Somethin' every decently evil law firm needs lyin' around." A sigh broke his body and he collapsed into one of the armchairs in the foyer. "An' wha's best…guess who has exclusive access?"

There was no need to guess. "Angel."

"The one an' only."

Lockley pursed her lips. "Is she…is the Slayer going to be all right?"

Spike's scowl darkened once more "Bloody right she is."

Cordelia looked at him sympathetically. "Did she know you were there?"

He nodded. "I…I couldn't walk away. She was jus' danglin' there an'…I couldn't…" His eyes fell shut painfully, fighting the losing battle to keep his emotions to himself. Despite his liking for these people, bearing all with no thought to consequence was still something he wasn't entirely familiar with. Regardless of implication. "She…what they've…I couldn't leave without _doin' _somethin'."

Evidently, there was something in the suggested tone that Lockley didn't like. Her arms crossed and she leaned against the front counter with a perked brow, studying him a bit too close for comfort. "Oh really?" she retorted. "And what _did _you do?"

The vampire looked at her with masked surprise. Well, didn't that beat all? Of course, the one licensed detective in the building caught onto whatever he wasn't making much noise to hide. Still, it was irritating—and furthermore—it wasn't her business. What had occurred between him and the Slayer was very much that: between him and the Slayer. He didn't need the opinion of an outsider to offer comfort to the girl he loved, and he certainly didn't need the tacit approval of someone so wholly unrelated to him that she might as well be a stranger.

"I helped," he said. And that was that.

"Oh, I'm _sure _you did."

"Spike…" Cordelia ventured. "What is she talking about?"

The last was something that fell distinctly to the void; he was too infuriated by suggestion to think to respond to the brunette. Instead, the peroxide vampire leapt to his feet and stalked forward with undisguised rage. It was both irritating and commendable when Lockley refused to flinch. The chit had stones, he had to admit. But the raw insinuation in her tone was unforgivable. The notion, the slightest _hint _of what she was saying…

It was enough to make a bloke do something he would only inevitably regret.

"I din't hurt her," he snarled, eyes blazing with the threat of transformation.

"Right."

"Hey," his companion intervened sharply. "If Spike says he didn't hurt her, he didn't. Sorry Kate. Just one more vamp that doesn't fit your ideal stereotype. And on that note, The Bias Line is closed tonight. Please see yourself out."

She looked at the other woman askance. "Didn't you just say a minute ago—"

"Yeah, I know. Changing my mind. Well, you pissed me off. Get lost and don't come back unless you have some information from Lindsey or Wolfram and Hart or something that does not resemble a threat to my friends. All right?" 

Spike stared at her, awe and bewilderment flooding his insides. She pointedly ignored his gaze and instead crossed her arms, waiting for Lockley to take the aforementioned leave. 

There weren't any words exchanged. Any pleasantries to be had. Nothing more than a roll of the eyes and a sigh of exasperation as the detective turned and made her way out the doors, closing them behind her with an effective slam. It wasn't until they were alone that Cordelia finally glanced to her vampiric colleague and offered a weak smile.

"So? Spill! Details!"

Spike frowned suspiciously. "About…?"

"You and Buffy. I want the full."

He looked at her blankly. "Uhhh…pet—"

"Don't _even _give me that 'nothing happened' bull crap," she threatened. "You have something-face. Any woman knows it. Why do you think Kate was all bug-up-her-ass?" She held up a hand. "And, let me clarify, I mean 'more-so-than-usual' and her radar isn't _nearly _as good as mine. Hello. If I had actually gone to college instead of working for my lame not-boss, I likely would've majored in dating."

The vampire grinned in spite of himself. "Yeh, you're a right natural."

Cordelia's eyes widened expectantly. "So talk! What happened?"

He shook his head and held up a hand. "Ah, ah, ah. I'm not one to kiss an' tell."

"Since when?!"

"Since now. An' for the record, luv, you an' I 'aven't been chums for long."

She growled her discontent, even if there was a smile on her face. "Bah! I hate not knowing things. This is so unfair."

Spike merely smiled.

"Tell me!"

"It wasn' like that," he replied cryptically, shaking his head. Then his eyes glossed over heavily—the weight of burdened emotion clouding his senses. "It was…she was in pain. She…what 'e's done to her. An' she was bleedin'. She was bleedin' 'cause of what he…an' she begged me not to leave her. She din't even think I was real until the end."

The tease in Cordelia's gaze had fallen completely. She stepped forward and touched his arm with sympathy. "It's okay," she whispered. "We'll get her out."

"Bloody right we will," he retorted gruffly. "I jus' don' know how. 'S why I came here. 'S why…" He shook his head. "These things that they've got her tied up in…Peaches is the only wanker who can—"

"I know. You mentioned it before."

"'F it were anyone else, I'd knick it the old fashioned style. But I don' know what I'm lookin' for. 'F 's in key-shape or what all." A sigh depressed his shoulders, and he collapsed again into the lobby sofa. "But whatever we do, pet, 's gotta be soon. I'll be dust before I before I jus' stand aside an' let him hurt her like that."

Cordelia followed him and took his hand into hers, patting its back in an almost sisterly fashion. "We'll figure something out," she reiterated, earning a weak, however grateful grin.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"You're a bit of all right."

She smiled. "Naturally. You, too."

Spike plastered on a pert grin and quirked his head cheekily. "Naturally," he retorted in the same tenor. 

"Very funny."

"You seemed to think so." He offered a complimentary appraisal before rising to his feet once more, countenance betraying all business. "So, where are the mates?"

"Zack and the others? Oh, they went by Caritas to see if you had decided to contact us again. Seemed kinda presumptuous to me. I mean, the Host called us last time." She shrugged. "I think it's because they're bored, and being of the sitting duck clan, I can't say I blame them. They also might've gone out to see if the Order's hunting again."

Spike nodded. "An' the girlies?"

"Upstairs. I don't think Nikki likes me."

He snorted inarticulately. "You an' me both. I can see why."

"Hey!"

"Well, if Zangy's been updated in your book so that the others aren' given proper names when you talk 'bout the lot of them." He arched his brows. "Bloody interestin' development, by the way. The chit's prolly worried about him, given all that 'appened. Either that or bloody resentful."

Cordelia frowned, not following. "Huh?"

There was an insolent shrug and a secretive smile. "Nothin'."

"They'll probably be back soon if there's no new info. Then we'll figure out what to do."

Spike sighed longingly. "Yes, we will," he declared with fierce determination. The fire in his eyes remained, changing tones only when it was suggested that he return to the grim reality that surrounded them. Constricted so that he felt he couldn't breathe if he tried—and despite the absence of necessity, the notion bothered him greatly. "God, I can't take this. I see her every time I close my eyes. She _begged _me not to leave her, Cordy. She begged me not to let him take her again. I can't bloody stand this."

There was a solemn nod that did not know to whom it was owed. "We'll get her out," she declared needlessly.

He nodded. "Bloody right." 

They had had this conversation a thousand times. It was time to do something about it.

A few minutes passed, filled with uncomfortable silence. Then Cordelia smiled and took a step toward him with an obvious attempt to sooth and improve his temper. "Actually, it's going to be kinda sad," she mused with falsely jovial thoughtfulness, however genuine her sentiment. "I mean, I've gotten used to you being around. And really, with as much as I like brooding Angel, you have a _lot _more personality."

Spike sighed dramatically, a glinting smile coloring his eyes. He knew perfectly well what she was doing but took the bait anyway. It was the best option in such circumstances. "Cordy, 'f you're madly in love with me, jus' say so."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh. Right. That's it. You caught me."

"Bloody knew it," he replied cheekily. Whatever the motive, her method had worked. He was smiling again, not completely distracted, but enough to merit a lighter temperament. "Though, by the smell of things, Zangy's lucky I got my heart all given to someone else."

There was a long pause and—for whatever reason—an adapted deer-in-headlights look. "What? I—"

Spike deftly pointed to his nose. "Nothin' incriminatin'," he assured her with a grin. "Jus' enough to know you two have been spendin' some quality time together. Though honestly, pet, I thought you had better taste. You really fancy that arrogant wanker?"

"Who are you to be calling anyone arrogant?"

A pause. "Touché. Relax, I'm jus' teasin'. 'Sides, he's an all right bloke."

"Yeah," she agreed with a little smile.

"Hope it works out," Spike said honestly. "The git needs a li'l happiness."

"Well, don't book the church just yet. There's not gonna be a wedding anytime soon." Cordelia shook her head. "Really, it's just a little flirtation. You're blowing everything out of proportion."

"Right. Does he know that?"

"Of course. You're really jumping the gun on this, buddy."

"Yeh," the platinum Cockney agreed, clearly not believing his own declaration. "Here's hopin', though."

"Either way," she said, reiterating carelessly. Anything to get the topic off herself, which was—granted—highly unusual.  If nothing at all, it was a sign that the matter was personal enough not to constitute the limelight.  For now, anyway.  And that was rather telling.  "They'll be back soon."

Spike nodded, spark fading from his eyes at mention of the unhappy truth abound them. Sent spiraling down a web of reality. He hoped beyond hope that she was right. The Slayer was counting on them—on him—and he would be dust before he let her down. Before he stood aside and watched without comment.

There wasn't a moment to spare.

*~*~*

Lindsey McDonald couldn't believe what he was seeing. 

He remained prostate—frozen—cemented firmly in his seat as the images unfolded beat by beat on screen. He had heard testimony enough to verify what his eyes were telling him with factuality; heard and disbelieved its weight with callous concentration. And yet, here it was. The proof he had so desperately needed. Nothing more to compare.

The look on Spike's face betrayed him for everything he had tried to hide.  The unbridled flashes of rage and lament.  The unmistakable façade that foretold his self-loathing and guilt.  Guilt that suggested beyond reason that he had put her there.  That his very being was responsible for what had happened—what had become of her.  There was no denying it.  No twisting reality to mend a diluted version of a more perfect truth.  The past few days had verified more of the same temperament where that came from.  

No.  The depth of feeling that the peroxide vampire revealed with a mere glance was all and more of what Lindsey had experienced.  He knew it well.  That rattling in the pit of his stomach.  The weary grinding at his heartstrings.  The pain that greeted him every morning, knowing he was about to get ready for a job that had lost its flare.  A company he had once believed in for reasons that now seemed, despite the cause, beyond ridicule.  It was a frightening thing.  Waking in the middle of the night to realize that, yes, this was his life.  Yes.  He did work for a notoriously evil corporation that loved nothing more than dancing over the scatterings of church collapses.  Yes.  He was likely forever damned for things he had not done, things he would never do.  Things that were tied to his name through association.  Through the contract he had willfully signed before solidifying his end.

Oh God.

Frightening indeed.  Lindsey had no idea what had brought him here.  Prompted him this far.  He would like to have argued that his actions of the past seemed like a good idea at the time, but it was far from the truth.  He would like to have stated that he didn't know what he was getting himself into, and yet he had all but drafted the disclaimer himself.  He would like to have confirmed his status as a man of principle, someone who would never allow themselves to sink this far into avarice.  And yet here he was.  On top of the fucking world.  So far elevated that all were deaf to his screams.

The vampire he was watching was not so different from himself.  Spike.  The demon that had no reason other than the hope of divinity and kindness to persuade him to take that defining step.  It was true.  Everything that McDonald had campaigned against was true.  True and there for witness.  

He loved her.  Spike loved the Slayer.  Loved Buffy Summers.  The very same Buffy Summers that Lindsey had all but tortured himself over in regard for her well-being.  He loved her, and he was here to help.  

And if the pictures before him revealed anything, Buffy was glad.  

_Very _glad.

There had been tears, of course.  Tears and blood.  Tenderness.  When Spike touched her, he did so with reservation.  His own yearning manifest but unsatisfied.  He would demand nothing of her in such a state.  He could not.  But he had comforted her, best to his ability.  He had found solace within her presence, soothed his rage only to be rekindled once more.  

Fascinating what video could surrender.

The image fizzed and died as the tape matched its reel.  Lindsey sat in encased silence for long seconds after, pondering what to do next.  There was no telling whom of the Wolfram and Hart personnel had viewed what he had just witnessed.  No noise of it was circulating in the hierarchy of the Special Projects committee, and while he was a proud standing member, his ignorance of such things did not mean anything.

However, with the way things were going, McDonald banked on Wolfram and Hart support.  Not in the full way.  The way that would guarantee the Slayer's release—they couldn't stand for that, especially with the apocalypse that Holland Manners had described on the waiting list.  No, the firm worked wholeheartedly for every immoral fiber the world could construct, even if things didn't always go their way.

Angelus, Darla, and Drusilla hadn't gone their way.  In fact, they were something of a dangerous asset.  Dangerous but too powerful to rid of.  It was a bizarre standing.  And thus, while Wolfram and Hart would never consent to liberate Buffy Summers, he wondered if they would contest to her mysterious disappearance, should it occur.

Either way, it was too dangerous to risk.  The video had to be kept secret.  That shouldn't present much of a problem, he reckoned.  Though it was only secret to the Order of their recorded torture sessions, Lindsey was the only associate that made cold study of their dealings.  One tape shouldn't make any difference.

Of course, in this building, one could never be too sure.

No.  Resolved at that.  It didn't matter.  

Things had gone far enough, and he was through waiting at the sidelines, ducking his head to be avoided.  Time to throw himself into the thick of it.  And the wisest way to do that would be an alliance with the very vampire he had wrongfully resented.  To ask Spike's assistance in the Slayer's rescue.

There.  While the burden was hardly lifted, Lindsey took the first breath of air that did not taste entirely tainted.  And it was wonderful. 

He was determined then.  No more waiting.  No more idle twiddling.

Together, he and the vampire would get her out.  Maybe then he would know some form of rest.  All the truths and logic in the world and he was boiled down to innate understanding.  One reason beyond all others.  Something he had ignored for years—something fresh and liberating beyond the expression of pain and amorality he had so long exploited.

He had to try.  He had to help.  He had to get her out.  He knew this.  

Because it was right.

It was right.

And that was all that mattered.

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Six: _Beyond The Sleeping Refuge_…**


	27. Beyond The Sleeping Refuge

**A/N: **And am again overwhelmed.  _Harbingers of Beatrice_ has been nominated at **Shades of Grey **for Best WIP.  Much thanks to whoever nominated me.  Much thanks to _everyone_.  You all rock!

On a side note, I've come down with a head cold that shouldn't deter me from writing for long, but it might be a few days before another chappie goes up as I don't want to catch up with myself.  (I'm several chapters ahead and I'd like to keep it that way).  The next update shouldn't take that long, but in case it does, that's why.  ****

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**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**Beyond The Sleeping Refuge**

"Ummm," Cordelia said softly, her voice somehow breaking over the elevated strands of heated debate.  It was a rather odd sensation, as she was typically one to be heard for her volume and not hushed composure.  Still, it had the desired effect.  The entire lobby fell to the same silence and looked at her expectantly.  "I have a really bad idea."  A beat when that merited no reaction other than deepened stares.  "But I think it might work."

That was all the incentive that Spike required.  He promptly broke from conspiring with Wright—slightly offed by the nearly innate need he had felt to relate all that had happened with his unlikely colleague.  As if such solidified his transition from more than associations.  As if it made them actual friends.

Not that such was not determined as long in the making, but the notion bothered him still.  

"Well then," he answered eagerly.  "Let's hear it."

Cordelia nodded and cleared her throat, tossing a cautious glance to the demon hunter.  "Some of you aren't going to like it," she warned.  Then her prospect expanded to the rest of the group who—by suggestion alone—were all regarding her with the same trepidation.  Even the enthusiasm from the vampire's eyes had dwindled.  "Okay, _all _of you aren't going to like it."

"Then don't tell us," Zack reasoned with a shrug that wasn't nearly as dismissive as he would have liked.  As if it were that simple.  It was difficult not to notice the sudden tension wringing his lithe figure to definitive stillness.  With power as seemingly minimal as words, his entire being was suddenly wound tighter than a guitar string.  "We'll think of something else."

"There isn't time to think of something else," she argued rationally.  "Even if it is a bad idea.  It just might be the only idea we come up with."

Gunn arched a brow.  "Ummm…just for the record…how bad are we talking?"

"It involves me being used as leverage."

That was it.  End of discussion.  From three different corners voiced the same opposition.  "No." 

Cordelia rolled her eyes and jumped to her feet.  There had been little variation in the weight of argument since the impromptu group of hunters arrived back at the hotel more than an hour before.  It was dangerous, she knew, keeping Spike so long from his blood ties, but another opportunity to discuss the limited range of options might not present itself.  The look on his face, despite reassurance, had not alleviated much from the broadened spectrum on where things stood with the Slayer.  It was more than obvious that he wished himself back in her presence, regardless of what it meant risking.

Which was why she was all the more determined to have an idea plotted by the time he took his leave.  He would go to Buffy almost directly, but they had to have something planned by then.  Waiting any longer could see her future's end.  

"Puhlease," she said, rolling her eyes.  "As _all _of you know, there's nothing Angelus likes more than live bait."

"Which is exactly why you're not going to be implicated," Wright all but growled.

"I must agree, Cordelia," Wesley said.  "I don't like the idea of—"

"You haven't even _heard_ my idea."

"Yes, well, by suggestion alone, I am prone not to like it."

"Gotta say, Cordy," Gunn agreed, shaking his head.  "I'm agreein' with Whitey and English, here.  We're already short one Slayer that I've never met but have, somehow, developed a life-and-death-interest in."  He tossed a brief glance to Spike, who smirked at him, even if it was a shadow of his usual showiness.  

Zack frowned.  "Whitey?"

"Spur of the moment."

"Kind of applies to everyone of the 'not you' society."

"I qualify for both," the vampire volunteered with a shrug.  "An' you can always call him Zangy, Charlie.  Seems to irritate jus' enough."

Gunn scowled.  "Stop calling me that."

"Guys.  Digression.  Remember?"  Cordelia waved.  "Listen, I know everyone here's not exactly onboard the Bad Plan Train, but really—and to both reiterate _and _state the more than obvious—we're running out of time."

"I don' wanna get you hurt, pet," Spike said softly.  "Don' get me wrong, I'll do anythin' to get her out, but—"

She shook her head.  "You guys seriously don't think that I've lived every day since working for Angel and not thought about what I might eventually have to do?  Granted, I really hadn't given much thought to Evil Incorporated plus two major undead hussies involved—and Buffy, never woulda saw that coming—but I can do this."

"No," Wright said shortly.  The tenor of his voice suggested anything but reason.  As though his word verified the end of all discussion and a motion to move to the next suggestion.

Cordelia's gaze narrowed as she considered him.  "Listen," she said shortly.  "I don't know if you heard me, but there's not exactly a long list of options.  And I can so take care of myself.  I've been doing it for a long time, Zack."  She held her hand up to the predictable foray of continued objection from her other colleagues.  "And you two oughta know me well enough by know to guess that whatever you say's not going to work.  And I'm not worried.  My plan involves Spike—which you'd know if you'd let me tell you—and I know he'd never let me get hurt."

The peroxide vampire shuffled uncomfortably, either by the implication of his now accepted goodness or the weight that was suddenly planted on his shoulders, no one could tell.  Thus, he opted for a noncommittal, "Thanks," before looking away in his disquiet.  

"Not that I wanna say you can't trust him," Gunn offered speculatively, holding his hand up to merit his standing.  "But you're putting a lot on faith, here.  Spike's only one vamp, and Angel's a bad mother with, as you said, Hell Incorporated supporting him.  If, say, he gets in kill-mode and has Darla and Dru help him out…"

"I can handle Dru," the peroxide vampire said softly, though it was obvious that he would like to do anything but.  "'F it comes down to it."

"And it probably will," Wesley stated.  

"I'll handle it."  Spike sighed and shook his head.  "'S not like I'd wanna hurt her or anythin'.  Despite everythin' that's happened, Dru's…well, she'll always be a part of me.  But that doesn' mean I won' stake her 'f she stands between me an' Buffy."

"She's a monster," Wright said softly, as though any other fate outside death was unsupportable.

"She's also my…" The peroxide vampire exhaled dramatically.  "Let's jus' say, it'd be no easier for any of you to kill the firs' chit you loved, would it?  Doesn' matter how bloody _monstrous_ she is, or even that I don' love her anymore.  I jus' don' wanna kill her.  But I will 'f that's what it comes down to."

"I don't think we could ask any more," Cordelia said before anyone else could get a word in.  Then she turned her attention to the others.  "And I'm doing this whether you want me to or not.  Spike can help me if it comes down to it.  So deal.  Okay?"

Wright made a noise of disgust and turned away.

"Might help if you'd clarify what _this _is," Wesley suggested.

"Well, Spike's going to take me to Wolfram and Hart," she said.  "Not now, but soon.  And when I say _soon, _I mean tomorrow at the latest.  I'd still like for him to talk to Lindsey and figure out if we have any alternatives."  Her eyes narrowed at the platinum vampire.  "Which I expect you to do directly when you get back, okay?"

Despite the severity of the circumstances, he found it within himself to answer with a cheeky, "Yes, Mum."

Gunn perked a brow.  "I'm not liking this, already."

"Neither am I," Wright said, back turned to them.  His entire body was wrought with strain.  As though he needed to prevent himself from lashing out in a manner that was most unbecoming.

"Well…" Cordelia frowned.  "Tough.  Anyway, in my plan, Spike would give me to Angelus—"

"I see your 'not liking' and raise you a 'hating'," Zack told Gunn, turning at that, eyes blazing.  "Are you out of your mind?  He'd rip you apart in seconds.  Or worse—"

"Or worse, he'd do to me what he's done to Buffy," she volunteered softly.  "I know."

"You're crazy," he decided.

"No," Wesley intervened, gaze not swaying from the brunette.  There was a glow of reverent awe pouring from his form.  "She's…Cordelia, when on earth did you become so noble?"

She smirked, though it was in good jest.  "Gee, thanks."

"I mean no offense, but—"

"Yeah, yeah.  Two years ago, I was ready to kill Buffy to be Homecoming Queen.  My, how not being in high school or having any friends changes people."  A determined sigh sounded through her lips.  "But I don't think it's going to come to that.  Slayer or not, she didn't know what she was up against when what happened to her happened.  I do.  I know exactly what I'm doing and what the odds are.  And, if this goes accordingly—"

Spike's eyes widened.  "Hold it right there," he said forcefully.  "Bloody hell, I thought you Sunnyhell alums knew not to jinx yourselves like that."

Cordelia covered her mouth in astonishment.  "Oh God.  Sorry."

"Tha's it, pet.  Deal's off."

"What?  No!  I didn't even finish my sentence."

"You jinxed yourself," Gunn added hopefully, though his words were obviously aimed more toward the sentiment of talking her out of whatever it was she had fully planned.  "Can't risk it now."

"You guys suck.  I'm doing it."  Her eyes leveled with Spike's.  "And you're gonna help me, or else I'll be doing it alone."

The vampire wove a tapestry of obscenities under his nonexistent breath with a dejected sigh.  Wright still refused to look at her.

"I'm going to be struggling too much for Angelus to have much to do with me," Cordelia continued, gaze focused on the platinum Cockney.  "And you're gonna help me.  Of course, you'll have to do the thing where you're trying not to be obvious in the fact that you're helping me.  In fact, you'll actually have to pretend like you're helping Angelus.  Then you can pull your pit-pocketing stunt and get me outta there."

The entire lobby fell deathly silent for long seconds.

"That," Gunn said, disbelievingly, "is your plan?"

"Yes."

"Cordy…that's awful."

"But worth it."  She glanced to Wright briefly.  His expression was stony at best, thoroughly unreadable by any conventional means.  "Spike told me he's good at petty theft—"

"Yeh," the vampire agreed hotly.  His features betrayed a disposition not too far removed from the demon hunter's.  He obviously was not as impressed as she was hoping.  "I also told you that robbin' Peaches 's akin to bloody suicide.  I'm not about to put you in that kinda danger 'f _that's _all you got up your sleeve."

"If he's preoccupied with me, _and _in the middle of a struggle, he won't notice."

"Bollocks."

"Spike, do we really have any other options right now?"

At that, Wright moved to comment.  The room fell silent once again under the impressionable weight of his manifest opinion.  "Other than stupid schemes that will not only result in a dead Buffy, but a dead Cordy as well?  I can't believe you'd actually consider doing this."

"Believe it," she snapped.  

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"I so am not."

Zack stormed forward heatedly.  "You're not invincible, Cordelia!  You go in there and try to pull this bullshit; he's going to fucking tear you limb from limb and fuck what's left over."

Gunn winced.  "Let's not get crude or anything."    

"Maybe crudeness is the only way to get through to her that she's being a fucking idiot."

Cordelia was nearly quivering with fury.  It touched every nerve there was to touch and influenced her all the more in her conviction.  "Maybe being a fucking idiot is better than being proactive instead of reactive.  This is the best that we can do, and for your information, nobody asked your permission. There's this little thing called learning from your mistakes.  Since _you _obviously haven't taken that step yet, I'm going to have to take it for you.  Learn from _your _mistake and not stand by twiddling my thumbs while a girl gets _fucking _raped and tortured and God knows what else _every single day."_

A cold, callous breeze filtered through the air.  He matched her gaze with such intensity that she didn't know if he wanted to hit her, scream at her, kiss her, or rip her head off.  In the end, he opted for none of these, and instead turned to bask in taciturn dilemma on his own terms. 

Wright had only been gone seconds when Gunn decided to lighten the air.  "And again," he said uneasily, "I'm out of the loop."

Wesley frowned.  "I believe I am, too."

Spike said nothing at first.  He watched his friend disappear to the upper levels of the Hyperion, indulged another unneeded breath, and turned Cordelia with more of the same.  "Pet—"

She turned to him sharply, foreseeing his objection.  "Don't.  Just go.  Go to Lindsey, figure out if there's something else you can do.  If not, just come back and get me."

"I don' like this."

"Well, I don't, either, but I'm not going to stand back and do nothing."  She glanced wordlessly to the staircase that had carried the hunter away from deliberation.  "Not now that I've seen what they're capable of."

Spike followed her gaze.  "Zangy—"

"He'll have to deal, okay?  I'm not doing this to spite him.  He's just not used to a woman in charge."

"Nikki," Gunn pointed out.

The vampire snickered softly.  "Wrong kind of 'in charge', mate."

"Whatever Zack's problems are, they're his, not ours," Cordelia stated with more conviction than she felt.  

"Right," Spike agreed solemnly, and nothing more would be said in the matter.  

The note that settled over the Hyperion as he took his leave was somber at best.  Regardless of disposition, there would be no peace between any of them while things remained as they were.  They were beginning to war with themselves, which was never good.

Buffy could not be saved while her rescuers had nothing better to do than argue.

And for the moment, that was what kept him going.  Flashing back to her face.  The way her skin felt under his touch.  The way she whimpered into his mouth.  The way she begged him not to leave her.

It was time then.  

Time.

Spike wanted to be certain that when she next made that request of him, he could appease her.  Now through eternity.  Cordelia's offer notwithstanding, it kept him motivated.  Kept him moving forward.

Kept him resolved on the understanding that he would get her out.  No matter what it took.  No matter what it cost.

Even if it was everything.  She was worth it.

*~*~*

It was a miracle that he could navigate himself anywhere; much less to his chamber, he was so angry.  The years had taught him many things—namely to entrust his senses.  Even when Amber was murdered, he did not recall being blinded with fury as much as fueled with it.  Seeing her hanging as he had spurned the wakening that had led him to be what he was.  

Now was an entirely different matter.  The raw bluntness of his outrage had nothing compared to the intensity of it.  The past two days had been hell enough on his conscience to add warring with a woman he admittedly knew very little about doing something that scared him more than he would ever openly confess.  It was the closest he had come to completion since the revolutionary moment that saw the end of everything he had ever been.  

His feelings for Cordelia were admittedly jumbled, this latest confrontation notwithstanding.  He barely knew her, and yet she possessed the ability to strip him down to the single fibers of his neglected self.  The primary reaction, of course, was to ignore her completely.  Life had been hard enough without the influence of another woman.  While he never resented Amber for putting him in this position and would trade what they had shared for nothing, it—in essence—had robbed him of every hope of normality he had been close to seizing.  

What he had known with his wife was the closest thing to fairytale perfection he figured anyone had ever come.  That wasn't to say they went their daily lives without the expected squabbles and fights over this and that.  But it was homey.  Happy.  Somewhere between the boundary of reason and sensibility, he had found what it was that many people spent the entirety of their lives searching for.  Bliss to end all other.  Pure, unguarded bliss.

Which was why, in essence, losing it came at such an abominable shock.   Not for the brute of consequence—that lay far beyond on an entirely separate level—but for the formality of predetermined disposition.  They had never had any enemies; the thought that she could be taken from him in such a manner was beyond approach, thus even when Darla entered the picture, he was far too set in his ways to be influenced under any separate persuasion.

Seven long years had passed since he lost her.  Since he felt anything but cold.  But the drive to go on.  There was love, of course.  Love for Rosie and Nikki.  Love kept more for duty and paternal obligation.  He loved his daughter with everything he was, even when he thought himself void of anything but calloused resentment and fury.  And even while such notion had seemed ridiculous and beyond impossible, there was the unacknowledged whim that he would never allow himself to become romantically attached to anyone.  It felt wrong.  As though he was betraying her.  Betraying a woman seven years dead by allowing himself to become more human than he had been in the same span.

He didn't know Cordelia—not really.  And yet she was a danger to him in the satisfaction of such regard.  She had tapped into whatever humanity he had left.  Whatever disposition was inclined to fall under the wordless authority of the opposite sex.  He didn't know what to do with himself.  If there was anything to do.  It was wrong but it wasn't.  Such could never be fully wrong.

And now she was going to do something entirely stupid.  

She was going to let herself die.

Fucking women.

Not only that, she had the audacity to throw his own reservation back at him.  The mere hint of suggestion was enough to make him want to wring her neck, even if it would do no good.  Very little could be said or done for headstrong women.  It was unfounded.  He had never met anyone like her.  She was sure to be the death of him in some fashion or another.

Nikki had never greeted him with such blatant opposition.  They had their fights, of course, but she was always under the understanding that he inherently knew best, and to dispute him would not only be futile, but beyond foolish.  After all, his judgment had prevailed them this far.  

Cordelia blatantly refused to see that.

And it was going to get her killed.  He couldn't lose her now.  Not to the same creatures he had lost Amber to.  Not with his feelings developing.  Not with the collapsing of his heart on the line.  Not with _everything._

If he lost her, even with his feelings as they were, he feared he would never recover.

A gentle knock on the already-open door perturbed the solitude of his musings.  He knew it was her without needing to turn, and he stiffened in effect even if he never refused his consent.  It was of little use either way.  Cordelia was her own woman and likely wouldn't care a damn about his feelings on even the smallest of matters.

_That's not fair, _his mind warned, but he was too forgone to care.

"Well fine," she said when he offered no greeting.  "I'm coming in whether you want me to or not."

Wright's eyes narrowed.  "You're good at doing things I'd rather you not," he observed.

There was a pained sigh.  "Look—"

He held up a hand, still refusing to turn and face her.  "I don't wanna hear it."

"I'm sorry, okay?  But it has to be done."

The hunter's head fell and he exhaled deeply.  "Why bother talking at all?  Why bother _anything?"_

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't like this."

"Well, it doesn't!"  At that, he pivoted sharply on the mattress, eyes shining with hurt that he hadn't wanted her to see.  With more emotion than he felt he had the right to portray on such an abbreviated acquaintance.  "This is insane, Cordy."

"Yeah.  Getting that."

"And you don't care.  You really don't care."

"Care?  Care that I might get killed to the ninth degree or worse?  Of course I care."  She approached hesitantly, not covering too many steps in fear of rejection, but also refusing to turn and back away from him now.  "But I'm not going to let Angelus win because I'm afraid."

"This isn't the only option."

"I know it's not.  Or maybe it is.  Maybe we waited too long and all the other options are gone.  Point being, it's the only one we've got right now.  We don't have time to sit around and wait for something else to spring to mind."  That was it; she covered the steps between them with resolve that marked her for every strand of dignity she could uphold.  A soft beat, and she sat next to him, taking her hand in his as her thumb ran comfortable circles over skin roughened with neglected time.  "I've been too selfish all my life to let that stop me now."

Wright feared losing his tenacity with her so near.  With the comforting touch she offered being etched aimlessly into his flesh.  "It's dumb," he whispered.  "It's too dumb."

"It'll be all right.  Spike'll be there."

An inarticulate snort.  "Don't get me wrong, but that doesn't exactly offer the grace of comfort.  Spike's not the best example for…anything."

"He wouldn't let me get hurt."

"He's—"

"For the love of God, don't tell me what he is.  I know what he is.  Hell, one of what he is—up until recently—signed my paycheck.  It doesn't matter."  Her grip on him tightened.  "And you know it.  Spike doesn't like to admit that he's got a conscience, but he does.  He's…for whatever reason; he's become a friend.  To all of us.  Even you."

Wright looked up sharply at that, objection written plainly in his eyes, but there was nothing to say that would offer reasonable disagreement.  He was tired of arguing a fruitless battle.  Tired of pretending his prejudice was the only thing keeping him from the full welcome back to humanity.  Too long spent in the cold winter of his own discontent.  Thawing back to life was a tiresome, nearly painful process.  "I know," he conceded softly.  And the weight of the world fell down upon him.  A collapse—a confession.  Everything he had wanted to keep concealed so long.  The complete transformation of character.  From one extreme to the next.  He hadn't asked for this—hadn't _wanted _to trust Spike.  Hadn't wanted to lose himself all over again.  Hadn't asked his unlikely friend and the woman currently cradling his arm to tap back into his compassion.  He hadn't wanted it, goddammit.  And yet here he was.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he whispered softly.

Cordelia smiled and pat his hand with empty reassurance.  "I won't."

"You can't know that."

"Well, I'm pretty stubborn, you see.  When I put my mind to something, I don't rest until I see it through."

"This has to be the dumbest plan ever."

She quirked a brow.  "Oh, I don't know.  I never got through telling you all my adventures a la Sunnydale."

Wright nodded and closed his hand around hers, braving her eyes at last.  "Tell me when it's over," he said. 

A smile at that and a nod for agreement.  "Sounds like a plan."

Yeah.  A plan.  Seemed to be a lot of those going around.  

He would allow it, of course.  He had to.  He had no place intervening, and no authority over her will to make it otherwise.  She was determined.  That much was indisputable.

He just hoped she knew what she was doing.

*~*~*

Spike knew it was stupid so soon, but the minute he set foot inside Wolfram and Hart, there was no other truth.  He had to see her again.

At times like these, the peroxide vampire wondered if he did himself more harm than good simply by being in existence.  His judgment was not exactly reputable, and he had a tendency for getting himself in trouble simply by opening his mouth.  And yet, despite his awareness of such things, he could not help himself.  It was beyond reproach.  Like the bloody clichéd moth to the flame, he was drawn to her.  He needed to see her, to be near her.  To have that reassurance of her tangibility.  

 Such was his determination that he didn't think to check on the others' whereabouts.  In these fast coming days, his patience had all but plummeted.  And while logic attempted to throw itself at any open window, he simply wouldn't hear the half of it.  

He had to bloody see her.

There was some merit in reasonability.  As his burdened steps drew him nearer, his senses went on high alert.  Angelus's scent wafted in the dreary downstairs, but there was no evidence of his current proximity.  The quarters were empty—he had thought to check that much—and while two factors did not measure soundness of being; it was all he needed to push him onward.  To convince him to plunder his more tangible cares aside and confirm that she was all right.

If only for a second.  After all, his previous rendezvous had gone unmentioned.  And the peroxide vampire was always one to try his luck.

Strange.  He would have thought the shock of seeing her in such a state would have waned and settled.  After all, every time his eyes flashed closed, his mind drew him back to a sad focal point of reckoning.  She haunted every corner of his psyche, visited and caressed every part of him that had not previously been explored.  And yet again, seeing her sliced through every nerve that had once felt life.  As though he was bleeding eternally for every one of the lives he had ever destroyed, and could never find solace in death.

Yet her eyes lit up when she saw him.  And for that, he would touch the sun.

"Spike."  

Funny how a voice so raw with screams and even further disuse could strike up a wind that not even the grandest symphony dared compete.

He couldn't stop himself if he tried.  In seconds, he had paraded to her and commanded her sweet mouth into a needing, however gentle kiss, his hands going to her face.  Sore eyes did not wish to inspect her for new scars, though he knew it was inevitable.  His call for blood in turn of what she had suffered—he needed to know how much.  "Told you," he murmured against her skin.  "Told you I'd be back."

"Real."

Spike smiled in spite of himself.  "Yeah, luv.  I'm real."

Buffy pulled back at that, tears flooding her eyes that he could not bear.  God, how was it that he always ended up the source of such pain when all he wanted to do was wish it away?  But there was no hurt behind her gaze.  Rather, she was looking at him with reverential awe.  As though he burned effulgent with divinity.  "I thought I had dreamed you," she whispered.  "I thought…"

"I know, baby."

"But you're here."  Her eyes focused on his determinately.  "Not a dream."

"Not a dream."

"Real."  The word escaped her a tortured gasp, her eyes falling shut as his lips explored her throat.  "You're really real."

Despite the weight of circumstance, he smiled against her skin.  "That's right."

"Here for me."

"Only for you."  He pulled back, eyes shining.  "An' the cavalry's on it's way, Buffy.  Soon.  All right?" 

She nodded, though it was clear she didn't understand.  "You're very strange," she informed him, nearly pristinely.  

A strangled chuckle fought through his throat.  "You don' know the half of it."

"Here for me."  The Slayer's head quirked.  "Spike, why?  Please tell me."

And there it was.  The open window.  She had given it to him before, but he had not leapt through.  Something about the timing.  Something about everything there was to have reservations about.  But she had not flinched away from him then, and she was not now.  She had returned his ardent fervor best she could.  The tears she sported now, while shards against his nonbeating heart, were not the product of pain.  

She could never feel the way he did—he stood by that assessment.  

But she deserved to know.  She deserved to know _something._

Even if the timing could never be appropriate.  If not now, then not when she was recuperating.  If not then, then not on the drive home.  If not home, then never.  He would take his love to the end of the world before he scared her off with it, even if she always knew his driving cause.

It had to be said.  At least once, if never again.

"Buffy," he began huskily, nearing once more of unknown volition.  "I—"

An intrusive scent hit the air with such bluntness that he could not have foreseen its coming until the second before it wrestled him to the ground.  Something strong, more than potent.  Something that stirred his monster to life with more vitality than he had known in his long years.  Such that he feared it would burst free of him and cast his skin aside.  The emergence from one to the other.  Demon versus man.

Right now, the demon prevailed.  

"Well, well," Angelus said from his place at the doorway, arms crossed and a quirked brow.  His voice was sharp and metallic, ringing with game and disdain.  "Isn't this interesting?"

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Seven: _World On Fire_…**


	28. World On Fire

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**World On Fire**

The minute that he noticed activity in the holding chamber, something analogous to the worst spool of dread he had ever experienced filled his insides.  Living in a world such as he did, Lindsey McDonald did not like to depend on the fear of supposition, but in watching the monitors that had held his captive interest for what seemed like weeks, he could not tear himself away.  Watching her dangle there.  The proverbial worm on a hook.  Reminding himself needlessly in his role.  In his position that seemed to worsen exceedingly by the minute.

Then something happened.  Spike appeared on camera.  William the Bloody.  The same he had tried to kill over and over again, thankfully to stumble across his mistake before the boundary of _too late _was crossed.

There was no denying the fevered look in the vampire's eyes as he regarded her.  This was a man in love.  It was so different now; watching the feed as though there in person.  Knowing that the same was happening on the levels just below him.  That were he to visit Buffy himself, this was the presentation he would receive.

Of course, such unworried satisfaction could only remain thus for a minute.  It didn't take much for his attention to deter to one of the other feeds, and note the proudly familiar disdain on a face he had grown to hate more than he ever thought imaginable.

Angelus was approaching, and he did not look happy.

Decisions from that point were fast making.  Lindsey spared himself little room for lapse.  He hurried out of his seat and rushed to the cabinet aligning the wall.  There wasn't enough time to make ample selection, but he supposed in the grand scheme of things, such means were insignificant.  As long as he could pass it for believable.

McDonald refused to fool himself.  He knew that what he was about to do could potentially bear an end to everything he had tortured himself over.  Everything Angel Investigations—though, in retrospect, they should consider renaming the industry—had worked toward.  And Spike, vampire as he was, had inadvertently placed them there.  Not that it wasn't understandable, of course.  Had Buffy been the woman he loved, being separated from her—especially under such circumstances as these—would have rightly driven him out of his mind.  To be so close yet unable to help her when she needed it the most.  He didn't know how the peroxide Cockney had done it. 

In later days, Lindsey would wonder how he managed to race the seemingly endless miles to the bowels of Wolfram and Hart without encountering any form of obstacle, especially with the gnarly instrument in his hand.  Even Lilah Morgan remained far and away from her usual bout of timely interruption.  At the moment, however, he didn't care.  Nothing mattered except to get to her.  To him.  To both of them before Angelus decided to instate his own form of punishment.

As he approached the decisive hall, Lindsey forced his long strides to a hasty walk, panting entirely too much to pull off the frontage he was going for.  He could hear Angelus speaking—his words coated with incredulity and sending vibes down the corridor.  The elder vampire's back was to him at present.  McDonald paused very briefly and considered.  Had he brought something molded of wood, this would have been the chance to beat all others.  To finally get something done in the movement of Buffy's release.  However, even before the thought could be birthed into full-blown resentment, he realized that any attempt on the demon's life would have been interceded, even anticipated.  And despite Cordelia's vouch of good faith, he wasn't entirely convinced that Spike's motive would have been kind enough to prevent something as unseemly as his death.  

Infinitely better this way.  At least he would know where he stood.

"Now, now," Lindsey berated bravely, commending himself in the actuality of startling his foe with his sudden presence.  If anything else, it was worth everything to see Angelus look surprised with himself for not noticing him.  "Don't be cranky.  We are an independent enterprise that prides itself in equal opportunity, after all."

Whatever the astonishment, it didn't last long.  Soon, Angelus's brow was crestfallen with new shades of anger.  "Lindsey," he greeted, not at all amiably.  "So glad you could join us.  I was wondering if you could help me as I'm having trouble with this picture.  Spike here has taken it upon himself to snoop around what's mine.  I guess it can't be blamed…he did have the most appallingly inconvenient curiosity.  But that's not what bothers me.  Not really.  You see, I always regarded us as good friends.  Close enough that we would never keep anything from each other.  And yet he insists that you gave him permission.  _You._  I find that rather interesting."  His gaze affixed on the mortal with malicious intent.  "Don't you think it interesting?"

The lawyer's eyes met the peroxide vampire's and developed instant understanding.  He refused to look at the girl.  Seeing her now—in person—might rightly undo him for good.

"I didn't think you'd mind," he retorted, all too calmly.  Enjoying every minute of the other vampire's rage.  "After all, your initial reservation in maintaining the Slayer's secrecy from our newest acquisition was a question of character.  I think last night proved more than enough in the namesake of his regard."

He had done it.  In two minutes, he had detracted all attention from the platinum Cockney and embraced it all for himself.  Angelus's gaze had darkened considerably, the bulk of his body pivoting to box him into a corner, which of course Lindsey did not allow.

"You went against me," he said very softly.  There was sharp challenge behind the observation.  As though he had trespassed one of the seven deadly sins.

"Actually, Angel, had you read our contract, you would see that I was entirely within company policy in part of my actions."  Lindsey thought he sounded much calmer than he felt.  He knew that everyone present—likely including the Slayer—could feel the race in his pulse, but that did not stop him from continuing.  "For purposes that have already been satisfied, Spike has every right to your…guest."  He hated that word.  "Just as much as you do.  He is no more infringing your hospitality than Darla and Drusilla did when they interviewed her prior to your sessions."

Angelus's eyes were cobalt and unreasonably dark.  "You know me, Lindsey," he said.  The worse thing about his voice was the definitive lack of a snarl or anything that bordered true hostility.  There was anger because there was anger.  Just because.  He needed no additive influence to get his point across.  "I do not favor being treated like any other client."

"Well, you see, the Senior Partners are concerned."  That lie was easy enough.  The Senior Partners were often concerned or interested in something.  "They wanted you to be sure that you knew what playing field you were on.  This isn't what you're used to, Angelus.  This is a whole new ballgame.  And we have an interest in appeasing all our associations."  He nodded at Spike, whom had, for whatever reason, enough sense about him to remain silent.  "Your colleague merely expressed a complaint in boredom.  We thought it best to give him something to do.  Rest assured, that's as far as it's gone.  He doesn't have the…royalties that you so enjoy."

The elder vampire didn't react; merely glanced down at the device in Lindsey's grasp.  "Mhmm.  And what is that for?"

He had nearly forgotten he had anything with him at all.  McDonald held up the instrument, doing his damndest to ignore the whimper that tellingly spilled from Buffy's lips, as well as the rattle of her chains as she shifted.  He similarly ignored the sudden tension wrought in Spike's intimidating, however taciturn frame.  "Well," he said, fearing his voice's betrayal, "you have a variety of devices that you refuse to share with anyone.  Spike expressed an interest in developing his own collection.  I thought to start with this."  His eyes darted to the stormy blue of an unimpressed vampire, who looked to tear his head off for even suggesting such a thing, even if it was to ultimately save him from a scenario that had first seemed impossible.  "It's medieval," he explained, mind immediately racing to the vaults of otherwise useless information stored there from his college days.  The random intricacies that every good Wolfram and Hart lawyer should know about. "You said you wanted something rustic.  They call this The Spider.  It was forged from iron to resemble a spider, as you might have guessed. We'll need to heat it until the iron glows.  It's used most commonly to mutilate or even tear off a woman's breast." 

Spike glared at him a minute longer before realizing that he had missed his cue.  "Right," he said with admittedly well-feigned interest.  "Well isn't this nifty?  Whaddya think, Angelus?  Do your girl proper, wouldn't you reckon?  Promise I won' hurt her too much.  You were a bloody selfish bastard in your day.  Had to have all the best screamers for yourself."

"Buffy isn't a screamer," the elder vampire conceded.  His eyes drifted upward coldly.  "Much."

Despite the notable severity of his disposition—not to mention his menacing prejudice toward Lindsey—it was near impossible not to become territorial.  Not to rise to the challenge.  In any regard, Spike couldn't help himself.  "Well, what can I say, mate?" he retorted perkily.  "Some Slayers are fickle like that.  Needin' a real man to help 'em hit those high notes."

Angelus glanced to the Spider with a perked brow.  "And you think this is going to help you?  Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.  You always were one for toys."

Spike shrugged.  "What can I say?  I jus' like them."

Something raspy and tainted perturbed the air.  Something that had been pure once, even whole.  It tore at Lindsey's heartstrings—though he didn't know if his note of sympathy was better delivered to the proprietor of such torment or for the look of pure agony that flickered across the peroxide vampire's face.  And again, to his credit, he didn't remain so blatantly telling for more than a second.  Angelus hadn't the time to see him in such light before it dissolved into cold apathy once more.

What she said, though, could not help but bring a smile to the younger demon's face.  Soft, poignant, and colored with more than McDonald figured the elder could ever identify.  "They…they make him feel all manly."

Angelus arched a brow.  "Is that a fact?"

Spike shifted to himself once more without much difficulty with a careless shrug.  "Told her as much myself.  Don' worry, Peaches.  You'll get her back."  With that, he seized the Spider from Lindsey's grasp, appraising it with a glance that shined with avarice.  "In mostly one piece."

"You flatter yourself," the elder demon snarled, "if you think I'm going to allow this."

"And you flatter yourself," Lindsey said, stepping inward bravely, "if you think you're in any position to stop it.  Face it, Angel, you're not the head honcho around here.  The Senior Partners want to see that you remain grounded in the reality that you have chosen for yourself.  Spike has every right to torture the Slayer.  He is a part of the Order."

Angelus cocked his head, eyes forming slits.  "He also, up until recent, claimed himself in love with her.  You don't think this sudden interest strikes you as—oh, I don't know…say, coincidental?"

"If you're planning that route, you'd have to say the same about yourself."

Spike smirked but didn't rise to bait.  He also refused to look at Buffy, though every fiber in his being was tugging him toward her.

The elder vampire cocked his head inquisitively, his gaze intensifying to a fiery scope that had the potential to unravel the sturdiest of men.  "Understand," he said very quietly, "that the next time I see you—"

"Uh oh," the platinum Cockney tsked, eyes blazing.  He regarded Lindsey with a falsely forlorn disposition, hiding his chuckles under guarded breath.  "Now you've gone an' done it."

"But he can't," the lawyer retorted.  "And he knows it."

The next happened all too quickly.  Lindsey found himself pressed against the cold murk of the wall, a very dangerous vampire snarling with too much interest at his throat.  Angelus refrained from vamping, which likely added to his intimidation.  For whatever reason, it was much more frightening looking at that face and pretending it was a man rather than the demon that waited beneath.

"I don't appreciate being played," he growled, disdain and cynicism dripping from his voice.  "And I don't give a damn about your Senior Partners.  You know what troubles me, Lindsey?  The idea that I can't trust you.  I mean—honestly—here I am, giving you every reasonable courtesy I can manage, and the minute my back is turned; you're making arrangements that you know are just going to Piss.  Me.  Off."  He enunciated each word with a forceful blow against the wall, eyes blazing but without the need for their more innate yellowish tint.  "It makes me feel, oh, I dunno, betrayed.  And I don't like feeling betrayed."   

The mortal gasped for air as his holder threatened to steal it from him altogether, but refused to lose the edge to his voice that gave him some sort of authority.  "I suppose you could allow me to rectify it."

"Wouldn't advise it, mate," Spike suggested, brows perked as he reached for his cigarettes. "You might make Big Daddy even angrier than 'e is now."

Angelus tossed him a mildly inquisitive glance.

"What?" The peroxide vampire stretched his arms neutrally, fag dangling from his lips.  "'m on your bloody side, 'ere.  Kill the wanker, don' kill the wanker.  'S your bloody business.  'm jus' in it for the fun."  His eyes shone brilliantly, glancing to the Spider that hung still from the lawyer's hands.  "But let me play with that a bit, either way you choose to go.  Looks like fun."

"Kill me and you just have the Senior Partners to contend with," Lindsey answered, gasping for breath and successfully drawing attention back to himself.  "And trust me, Angel, you don't want that.  At least with me, you're guaranteed some leeway.  They won't put up with you as I have."

The elder vampire's grip tightened speculatively.  "Oh, I dunno.  We could always find out."

Spike rolled his eyes emphatically.  "Jus' do what you're gonna do an' let me get to it.  'm bored."

Angelus snickered and tossed a half-interested glance over his shoulder.  "You wanna torture the Slayer, boy, there's nothing stopping you."

A muffled whimper rumbled from the girl in question, but no one answered her.

The peroxide vampire offered a petulant pout.  "'S no fun with you here."

That was it.  Attention successfully deterred for the minute.  The elder vampire released Lindsey without another word, disregarding him like an unwanted toy.  He pivoted to face the younger demon, brows arched with interest.  "I don't like the idea of leaving you alone," he mused thoughtfully.  "Especially with what happened the last time."

Spike sighed.  "You gonna hold that against me forever?"

"I don't take well to those who form alliances with Slayers.  Especially when it involves me not ending the world."

"Oh, but you're perfectly content with your bloody star-crossed love affair, s'pose?  An' I wasn' the one makin' googly eyes at her after she sent me to Hell.  Point of fact, I 'aven't been there in the recent."

"You couldn't survive it."

The peroxide vampire cocked his head with interest, blowing out a pillar of smoke.  "'F memory servers, neither did you.  It was your less interestin' half that wound up lickin' your wounds.  Prolly couldn't find the time to be tortured for all the sodding brooding you do."

There was a rustling from behind.  Lindsey rose steadfast to his feet, good hand caressing his throat—the Spider having dropped to the floor.  "Point being, Angel," he said.  "You don't have a say in the matter.  Spike is permitted at least an hour uninterrupted—less if he chooses, but I'll leave that up to him."  His chestnut eyes were greeted by the summer's ocean; nearly compassionate for his compromise, even if a mere sixty minutes could never be enough.  "Like I said, you can make all the fuss you like, it doesn't change anything.  And despite how much you care to talk, I don't think meeting the Senior Partners is what you're striving for.  Work for us, or work against us.  But from the sound of things, if you choose the latter, you and yours are going to be on the outs in several locations, especially where your former committee is involved.  Word has it that they're building artillery enough to take you out of the picture for good."

Angelus snorted incredulously.  "You mean to intimidate me?"

"Of course not.  I'm hoping to play on your sensibility."

There was nothing after that.  Not a word of compliance, or a move to mark the tides of battle.  Instead, the elder demon scowled something dreadful; a look that spoke for everything common language failed to represent.  His resentment.  His self-made legacy.  Angelus, as he was.  The full brunt of demonhood.  He was most seriously displeased, and he wanted everyone to know.

This was not a fortuitous change by any means, though it was not wholly wanted.  As one of the world's most renowned vampires, edging on his temper was not something to trifle with.  And Lindsey knew it.  More over, he was counting on it.

But at that moment, he decided that it was worth it and more to see the proud fall, even if the setback was only temporary.

Both the lawyer and Spike remained still until they were certain the elder demon was fully out of earshot before glancing to each other with similar recognition.  And even when the unfounded contract was established, there was nothing more than good faith to support it with.  The peroxide Cockney's eyes blazed with acceptance, though traveled downward with more of the same, landing contemptuously on the Spider at his feet.

"That," he said lowly, not a threat but close enough that Lindsey did not want to press him.  "Never bring it near her again."

He nodded.  "I didn't actually mean for you to—"

"I know.  Jus' a friendly warnin', mate."  A sigh rumpled through his body.  "She's seen enough without puttin' more ideas in that wanker's head." 

Another nod.  This one of understanding rather than agreement.  He still refused to look at Buffy, admiring her for her silence, but reckoning she had had her fill of experience in that regard.  He feared losing what little control he had left if he saw her inflictions in person.  Or rather, he would never stop staring.  He would keep his eyes fastened on her with morbid fascination.  The epitome of fathers who drove curious children by tornado damage or demanded to know the particulars at the scene of an accident.

"You're really here for her?" he asked the vampire instead.

"Yeh.  You really gonna help?"

"Yes."

"Right then.  Guess we 'ave some talkin' to do."  There was a whimpered sound of protest that he had seemingly anticipated, or answered to on beck and call with similar esteem.  Spike stepped back, his arms refusing to unfold from his chest, eyes remaining glued to him as though daring a move that wasn't to his liking.  "But firs' I'd like the hour with my girl.  No bloody interruptions."

Lindsey tilted his head in acknowledgment.  "I actually might have an idea.  Nothing I was sure of until…well, if we get everyone in on it…but I need to do some research."

"Right.  You do the research."  Spike turned away from him at that, and from that moment, he was lost.  The lawyer knew enough to recognize and respect this.

"I'll be in my office," he said.  And then he sent himself away.  So hasty to leave, that he likely would have missed the vampire's low but sincere _thanks _had he not slowed to collect the Spider in his retreat.

He had every intention of seeing it destroyed before Angelus thought to inquire.

**To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Eight: _Breathe Into My Pain_…**


	29. Breathe Into My Pain

Chapter Twenty-Eight 

Breathe Into My Pain 

His first inquiry was naturally after her welfare, and he thought it rather odd when she favored him with a laugh.  It wasn't a rich laugh, but enough so to decipher that she was chuckling out of amusement rather than cynicism.  And it bewildered him.  Not that he would ever complain, of course.  He would never deny her anything resembling merriment, especially given her current conditions, but it puzzled him all the same.  

The way she looked at him still stole the nonexistent breath from his lips.  Affectionate, even adoring, and more than grateful.  For everything he had done and the hint of everything he would do.  Life was a fucking hoot—giving him what he wanted while raping her of everything she deserved.  While placing her here.  Defiling her with the weight of his failure.

"You're sweet," she murmured against his lips.

Spike looked at her askance.  "'m what?"

She did not answer, rather looked at him with eyes like saucers; eyes that could tempt him to his last strand of decency, all the while refusing to allow him leave of what had transpired within these walls.  

It was awe.  Bright, blinding awe.  Awe behind her gaze.  Behind her guarded thanks.  Behind everything that had ever made him what he was or what he ought to be.  Awe and adoration.  There was no love—he would not delude himself.  Buffy did not love him for this, and did not know his own regard, but there was something.  Something warm and wonderful, amidst all the pain.  And it astounded him.  After everything she had seen him do, everything she knew him for, she could find it within herself to look at him like this.

"You're real."  A statement.  A last verification.  Known but needed still for all its wonderful realism.

Spike smiled.  He couldn't help it.  Nimble, eager yet soft fingers traced her face with adoring regard.  There was nothing to do but agree.  "Very."

"You sent him away."

Lament immediately rose within him.  She spoke the truth, but it wasn't as though he would be there to guard her when Angelus returned to seize what he thought was his.  "He'll be back, pet."

"But you will, too.  Be back."

The vampire smiled, nodding as he leaned inward, unable to help himself.  His empty lungs filled with her essence, his nostrils carrying her scent as far as physics would allow.  "The next time you see me," he whispered urgently, "it'll be to take you away from here.  You got it?"

"How?"

"There's a plan, sweets."

"Angelus…he has the…the only…"

He nodded once more, brushing a butterfly kiss against her temple.  "I know," he murmured.  "But Cordy's thought of somethin'.  Albeit, 's not very good, but 's somethin'."

Buffy fell silent for a few long seconds, her eyes heavy with burdened resolve.  "Spike…" she murmured.  "You…you never told me."

"Told you what, baby?"

"Why."  She pulled back at that, gaze burning him to his core.  He couldn't help but swell with admiration.  She was undoubtedly the strongest person he had ever known.  The Slayer back and front when she wasn't trying to be something else.  A woman that didn't know her own abilities.  Buffy—the shadow of perfection that returned sunlight to hands that did not know what to do with it.  The determination he saw there was nothing short of extraordinary.  A need for knowledge that surpassed her well-being.  That surpassed everything she was meant to be.  And in that, he saw that despite what had transpired here, she would always be as she was.  That strength could not be besmirched and abolished.  "Spike…you hate me."

A poignant smile drew to his face.  She had accused him of as much upon first seeing him.  "No."

"But—"

He silenced her with another kiss, tasting lips that were just as raw, just as abused as the last time he demanded anything from her.  "I don't hate you, luv," he whispered.  "I wouldn't be here 'f I did."

"Then why?"

A sigh sounded through his lips.  He had been ready to tell her.  So ready until Angelus interfered.  Ready to reveal everything.  To detail his agonizing love for her in ways that would likely result in her beg for him to leave her be.  To die at the hands of these sadists rather than wish that sort of adoration upon herself.  But then, she did not appear repulsed when he touched her.  She returned his attentions as best she could and even made to initiate her own.  He had told himself that it was due to the circumstance, but the smallest part of him couldn't help but wonder.  But hope.  "You wouldn't like it, pet."

"Spike—"

"I don't hate you.  That's all you need to know."

A protest fettered to her lips but died in her eyes before it could be voiced.  And then she smiled at him—undemanding and somehow understanding.  As though she knew without needing to be told, or was complacent in the ever-elusive state of ignorance he thought was so necessary.  "I don't either," she whispered.  "Hate you.  I don't think I ever have."

Spike's stared at her in astonishment.  "You don'?"

"You're…"

"Pet, you don' have to prove anythin' to me.  Ever."  His hands molded around her face softly, barely touching her but needing the contact.  Any contact.  "'m not goin' anywhere."

"Before…" she murmured.  "Before this…before—"

"Don' try to talk 'f it hurts."

"I need."  She indulged a breath to compose herself.  "Spike, before.  When we…were before.  Before all…before Angel…before—"

He nodded encouragingly, brushing a kiss over her lips.  "Before the wankers took you," he acknowledged.

"You were…I know I never…never said it…" Despite the determination on her face, it was more than obvious that the last thing she needed to be doing was attempting to speak.  

"Pet—"

"Before.  You were…good…you were being good…to me.  And—"

"Buffy—"

A flash of irritation surged behind her eyes, and he couldn't help but admire her for it.  Nor could he help the smile that spread across his lips at her forceful tone.  That was his girl.  "Would you let me talk?  Please?"

That didn't mean, however, that he would allow her to stress herself to the point of affecting her health.  "You shouldn't," he told her.  "Don' worry yourself with me, luv.  Ever.  Whatever it is, it can wait."

"No.  In case…just in case…"

Something cold fell within him—the mere suggestion of any other possible outcome foregone on his caring candor.  He looked at her astray, as though she offended him or endangered herself even further for the notion of anything else.  "Don't," he said harshly, unable to help himself.  "Don't say that.  Don' even think it.  We're gonna get you outta here."

"Just in case—"

"No."

There it was.  Plea.  The rawness of emotions touching her where nothing else stood the chance.  It nearly choked him—rightfully so.  The brunt weight of everything he had ever seen, ever done, could not compare to this.  There was no measure for credence.  No measure for anything.  "Spike," she gasped, breaking his nonbeating heart all over.  "Please.  I have to…just this.  This reassurance that you'll…that you know how much I…" She paused to take a breath, raising her head slowly to meet his captivated gaze.  "Thank you.  Thank you for…everything."

Thanking him.  She was _thanking him?  _For doing what was natural to him?  For being here, for being…anything.

Spike's vision blurred.  "You don' have to…I had no other…I…oh, Buffy, I…"

She smiled weakly.  "Don't tell me I rendered you speechless."

He snickered inarticulately, regarding her with warmth that should have rightly set him ablaze.  "Li'l more than that," he replied.  

There was a considerate pause, but she nodded all the same.  It was oddly formal—this meeting between two people who had shared so much without sharing anything at all.  His hands ached to touch her, to make her feel better as he had before, but his will forbade it.  He would not reach for her intimately without permission.  Not when she had suffered so much abuse.  Not with his warring conscience warning him still that anything that had transpired had nothing to do with him.  He was simply the first who had offered a caress of gentility.  She would have taken it from anyone.

Though the thought made his already cold blood freeze within dead veins.  

"There's no reason," she whimpered the next minute, drawing him back to her with the smallest glance.  "No reason for you to be here, Spike."

"You're reason enough."

"I never gave you reason."

He smiled gently, unable to resist from caressing her brow with his lips.  "You din't need to.  I know these blokes, pet.  Know 'em well.  The whole nasty lot.  The thought of you up here…that was enough reason for me."

Buffy shook her head.  The confusion on her face nearly tore him apart.  As always, it was more than that.  It had to be.  And she knew it.  Even without the luxury of viewing himself in a mirror, he knew damn well that his eyes gave him away a thousand times over.  The years before his siring had taught him that much.  Nights staggering home to Mother with the routine stop in front of the mirror to be sure he didn't look too strained.  Too disheveled.  Too brokenhearted.  He would look in the mirror and hate himself for what he saw staring back at him.  A good man, if not one bent by society's standards.

A hundred years couldn't change that, nor could the demon inhabiting his insides.  Spike reckoned his monster and William had spent enough time together to measure out the pros and cons of their individual status.  The past few months had seen more William than he ever cared to acknowledge.

"He said…" Spike's eyes immediately went to her face, large and inquisitive.  Her voice, aching as it was, sounded heavenly to ears that ached to hear it.  "Angel…he said…that you were…that you…"

Oh, bugger Peaches.  The old ponce _would_ have mentioned his love for the Slayer.  He had been hoping she was too foregone to notice.  Of course not.  Life did not bend to that whim, even when the one being played was by no standards alive. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Wanker says a lot of things," he retorted dismissively with a shrug.

"Spike.  No.  He said—"

"Never mind what he says.  Never mind anythin' he says."

The Slayer opened her mouth to contest him as she always would.  As he would always have her do.  However, by some decree, she held her tongue and kept her thoughts to herself.  Then there was resignation.  From the confusion playing a harp across her features to steadfast resignation.  The unsatisfied acknowledgement that she would get nothing else from him.

In that moment, seeing that defeat on her face, he was inspired once more to tell her.  Tell her, get it on the table, sod all consequences.  He loved her.  He was here because he loved her.  Where she went, he would follow.  Even if she led him into sunlight.

He loved her, and she deserved to know.

But not now.  The courage he had so prided himself on failed once more.  To see the face of her rejection here would outdo him.  Especially given what they had already shared.  He had touched her like a lover and she had not denied him.  If he made the suggestion that such contact ever exceed probability, she likely and rightly would.

There was, of course, the old adage that traumatic experiences changed a person.  That didn't rest well with Spike, either.  If she ever came to him of her own will, he wanted it to be out of genuine feeling rather than obligation.  Rather than repaying a debt he would rather her live all her days than attempt to redeem.  This was enough to fill an eternity's worth of empty nights.  This was everything.

"Dru."

Spike blinked, startled and jolting back to study her eyes.  "What?"

"Dru.  Have you…have you seen Dru?"

He stared at her as though she had broken into a Broadway show tune.  Drusilla?  She wanted to know about Drusilla?  The look in her eyes was serious enough, but he couldn't believe it. 

Where on _earth _had that come from?

"Well, yeh, 've seen her," he replied awkwardly, still unsure of what she was looking for.  "She went huntin' with them…with us.  I din't bite anyone, Buffy, I swear.  I—"

"Have you…been with Dru?"

The peroxide vampire simply stared, searching her eyes for whatever she was not telling him.  Then with a notion of the same, her gaze dropped to the ground and she attempted to hide, best she could as she was.  Naked and exposed—open to anything or anyone that decided to take pleasure in her body.  The move was so random, so blessedly unexpected that he didn't know whether to demand meaning or bark a laugh in turn.  

"Dawn," she said just as suddenly.  "Glory.  Does…where's Dawn?  How—"

"The Bit's in England with Rupert," Spike retorted easily.  "'E took the lot of them to get away from that Hellgod bint."

"Mom?"

"With 'em, I think.  'E's 'avin' the Council of Wankers help her with her condition.  At leas', tha's what he suggested."  That had been days ago, he realized.  Days, and yet what all had happened.  What all had changed.

There was a widening in Buffy's eyes that he hadn't seen in what felt like forever.  That innate Slayerness that coursed through her veins overpowering any need for herself in order to think in the welfare of others.  He had no idea how she did it.  How she could even form rational thought with all she had been through.  "Spike," she whispered urgently.  "If something happens…if I—"

"You won't."

"But—"

"No bloody 'buts', Buffy.  'm gettin' you outta here."

"—you have to watch her.  Okay?  Just…just please…promise me that.  Promise—"

He stole her words with a kiss to silence her completely, hoping that her better judgment and—more appropriately—some form of anger would speak for her.  It did not.  Instead, she matched him for what she could without doing further injury to herself, and it was obvious that she meant to fight the same when he pulled away.  She would keep asking it of him until he complied.  Until he agreed completely.

"Tell you what, sweetheart," he murmured.  "We'll watch her together, all right?"

"She's…she's the—"

Spike's eyes widened with alarm, knowing instinctively that whatever was about to spill across her lips was too important to be trusted with stone walls that might as well be paper thin.  There wasn't anything to suggest such, of course.  He just knew it.  And alliance or not, he wasn't about to trust Lindsey McDonald with anything that had not already been endowed upon his shoulders.  No matter that the moment the words tickled the air, he was inherently curious as to their conclusion.  "Don' say anythin'," he warned.  "Okay?"

Buffy paused to look at him inquisitively, and nodded when she understood.

"Just protect her," she told him instead.  "Please."

"Like I said, luv, we'll protect her together."

"If I don't—"

"'ll watch the Bit till the world ends," he promised.  "But not before I get you outta here safe an' sound.  All right?  She's fine.  Anythin' had 'appened, I'd've heard from Rupert by now.  The lover Wiccans are with the lot, too.  Don' think any of the Scoobies stayed in SunnyD after you…" What could he say?  Left?  As though she decided to take a holiday and vanished of her own accord?  No.  Even in such, he could not pretend.  "After you were gone."

That didn't seem to calm her as he had hoped.  Instead, Buffy's eyes went wide, and she surged painfully against her restraints.  The whimper that tore through her throat was the only mark of injury she made, but it caused his cold blood to boil all the same.  To watch worn skin tear and reopen old wounds.  As delicately as he could, Spike placed his hands on her shoulders to calm her, intent gaze matching hers for everything she had yet to betray.

"The Hellmouth," she gasped.  "The Hellmouth is…no one's there to…"

"Buffy—"

"They'll think…" She rested against his offered shoulder, panting with exertion.  It killed him that it took so little to wind her.  "Spike…they'll think that…the demons…they'll think I'm…that I'm dead.  That the Hellmouth is free…free range.  They'll—"

"Don' worry about the Hellmouth."

"Spike!  I—"

He discontinued her protests with a fierce, brazen kiss that did little to deter the worries sprouting on either side.  However, she did not protest.  Did not fight him.  Offered no resistance.  Rather, after a few seconds, she relaxed and returned his fervor with a touch of her own, making him burn all over with the slightest suggestion.  He pushed his way into her mouth, marking her for everything she had left to offer, if only for a little while.

There was a contented murmur when they parted.  Though he could not have been prepared for what she said next.

"How can you touch me?"

Spike blinked worriedly and jumped back as though scathed.  "I'm sorry," he gasped immediately.  "God, I'm so sorry.  I thought you…" So close and yet so bloody far.  If he had pushed beyond the boundaries of his welcome, intently or not, he would surely meet the sunlight come morning.  And when he felt courage enough to speak again, he nearly flinched at the dejectedness in his tone.  "I thought that's what you wanted."

There was a thick pause as she studied him, and then, to the amazement of both, threw her head back and laughed.  "Oh God, I do," she reassured him.  "You…I don't know why…I thought about it after you…after you left me—"

He flinched; she did not respond.

"—the…things…you did things…" Her eyes fell with near shyness to the ground, and the notion did him in all over.  "I never thought you'd touch me like that."

"Neither did I," he admitted.  He never thought she would let him.

"You…" Then Buffy was looking at him again, overpowering her bashfulness for the more stringent curiosity.  "You're more than you say you are, aren't you?"

"What?"

"Angelus…he…he's hurt me."  Though he knew that, it pained him still with a flush of unbridled anger to hear the words on her lips.  "He's soulless.  He's a monster.  You're the same."  Her eyes locked with his.  "You're _supposed _to be the same."

"I'd never hurt you."

"I know."  And she did.  Amazing.  Looking at her, he saw that she did.  "And that's what…like I said, you're more than you say you are.  I never…God, I never saw it.  Never…Spike, you're…" A sigh.  She shook her head.  "I don't know why…you won't tell me.  Tell me how you can…touch…"

The vampire couldn't help the smirk that tickled his lips, nor the command to bend forward and work her body for her.  Whatever it was, her words had inspired more than hope.  Now he took to caring for her as a privilege.  A duty.  A bond that she shared with no one else.  Trusted with no one else.  His alone to play to endless perfection.  "Like this?" he asked, licking a wet path around an erect nipple.

She crooned and moaned against him, answering with a breathy and barely audible, "Yes."

"'Cause I want to."  Obvious enough.  He nuzzled his face between her breasts, lapping up whatever he could.  Dried blood.  Sweat.  Even the dirt and grime that had collected there.  He didn't care.  It was all her.  "'Cause you don't need to feel pain anymore, sweetheart.  After we get you outta here, 'm gonna see you rightly cared for an' pampered till the end of time."

"But I…" Buffy hesitated, considering how to voice her concerns.  "You can't…it can't be something you enjoy.  I'm…look at me…I—"

Spike smiled against her, nuzzled still and refusing to leave for the moment.  "Since when do you care about what I want?"

"Since you were good to me."  She moaned when his tongue came back into play, wiggling her hips a bit.  As much as her chains would allow her.  "Since I realized how…how…"

"Don' say it," he cautioned, lifting his head to kiss her again.

There was a rumbled chuckle that put more pressure on her lungs than she was willing to concede for the moment.  "You should know by now," Buffy told him, "that if you don't want me to do something, then the last thing the to do is to tell me not to do it."

"Touché."  Spike pulled back slightly, attempting to not enjoy the murmur of discouragement that shot through her in effect.  "You're gorgeous, Summers.  Doesn' matter what 'e does to you.  Doesn' matter a damn.  You're…I've never seen—"

She rolled her eyes.

He quirked a brow.  "You don' believe me?"

"In a word, no."

The vampire chuckled in amusement.  "Sassy.  You _must _be feelin' better."  However, before she could voice her opposition, he pressed a decisive finger to her lips and shook his head, weary of her in every sense of the word.  "Trust me, baby," he murmured.  "Walkin' through that door an' seein' you…after everythin' 've gone through to get here…nothin' more beautiful than that.  An' trust me, pet.  'm a greedy bastard.  I've gotta have it all.  An' I do with you.  You're so strong.  So bloody…your courage astounds me."

The twinkle behind her eyes fell without prompt, giving way for the more palpable twinge of sorrow.  "I don't feel very courageous," she whimpered.  "Or strong.  If I…I would've been able to…I could've…"

He kissed the hollow of her throat in reassurance.  "There's nothin' you coulda done."

"I'm not used to being helpless, Spike.  I can't stand it."

"I know."

"I'm the Slayer."

"'m here, luv.  We'll get you out."  Spike rumbled a sigh and rested his forehead against hers.  "An' you'll be back to kickin my ass like ole times.  To make it easier for you, 'll even pretend like it hurts.  How 'bout it?"

She smiled gratefully.  "I couldn't go back to hurting you.  Not after this."

"Oi.  Don' make promises you can't—"

"I can't."  She leaned forward and kissed him gently, and his entire body froze in turn.  It was wonderful, the liberated feel of her lips on his.  Of her doing.  Of her initiation.  Forming that connection because she wanted it formed, rather than the heedless reassurance that played from his end every time he demanded her mouth for his own satisfaction.  The moan that tickled her throat in turn only served to further his conviction, and his legs quivered in turn.  "You're really here."

"'F you don' know that by now—"

"I know it.  I just can't believe it. I've never treated you…" Buffy's eyes fell shut once more.  "I don't deserve it."

Instant anger furrowed within him.  Didn't deserve it?  He couldn't think of anyone more deserving.  "Yes you do."

"Not from you."

She was dancing closer to reiterating the same question he refused to answer, and Spike wasn't sure that his will was strong enough this time around to bid the same refusal.  The defiance that suggested he could not reveal all his bearings without losing something for himself.  The path he ventured was dangerous and unsure, he knew, and the various stubs along the way could prove incurable if he suddenly took a fall.  

Thus he retreated within himself once more.  Seeking, hunting, needing something desperately to distance her from questions about his regard.  She knew he felt something—that much was obvious.  She knew it and she didn't want to believe it, but she knew it all the same.  

If the word _love _were to surface, it might rightly be the undoing for all of them.  He had to distract her.

Her and himself.

"Why'd you ask about Dru?"

A brief pause.  "What?"

"Dru.  You asked me about Dru."

Buffy released an exasperated sigh.  "Don't try to change the subject."

"No.  You asked me.  I wanna know."  Spike cocked his head, inspired with genuine curiosity.  "You asked 'f I'd been with her since I got back.  Why?"

The Slayer's head lowered conspiratorially at that, and she snuck a peek at him to see if he was laughing at her.  "Well…" she answered softly, almost afraid to be heard.  "…have you?"

The peroxide vampire reckoned that after finding little evidence to the contrary, being continuously surprised by her was not going to help anything.  And yet, he couldn't help himself.  It was self-inflicted, of course.  Provoked at his own measure.  But to consider her as he did now.  The meek wonderment behind such fiery depths of solitude.  There was something there that most definitely had not known existence long.  Something burning and powerful.  Something that was most assuredly not within the bounds of normal curiosity. 

She was jealous.

The Slayer—_Buffy—_was jealous.  And she hadn't wanted him to know.

Liberated joy spread through him, though it had no rightful place. Given ordinary circumstances, Spike would have taunted her.  He knew that upfront, just as he similarly knew that he would do no such thing now.  It wasn't a question of the ethics he was not supposed to have, nor the strain of civility deemed by the best as void to all of his kind.  It was simple knowledge.  Straightforward, simple knowledge.

"No, luv," he answered softly.  "She's tried, though. Makin' with the 'come hither' eyes an' what all.  'S prolly another reason Angelus wasn' too keen on believin' I was jus' happenin' by.  No doubt she's been wailin' an' givin' dear ole grandmum an' your precious ex a fair share of grief since I won' entertain her."

Buffy nodded, though it was obvious that she didn't understand.  "Why?" she asked a few minutes later.  "Why haven't…you've wanted Dru back for forever.  Why are you doing…why any of this?  Why not just…be one of them?"

There was an incredulous chuckle and he shook his head.  "You're a piece of work, Summers," he noted admiringly.  "Honestly, 'f you don' know by now…"

"How can I, when you won't tell me?"

Touché.  But every turn deserved another.

"Why does me bein' with Dru matter at all?"  Spike reached to tuck loose locks of disobedient hair behind her ear, thumb unable to help from caressing her cheek.

More uncomfortable fidgeting.  Despite the circumstances, he couldn't deny that he loved seeing her like that.  And whatever the cause, she looked remarkably well for what she had been through.  As though someone had fueled her with energy—with reason—since he last saw her.  He wanted to believe that he had something to do with it, of course, but fool as he might be, Spike was not one to live in a world of his creation.  Life with Drusilla had more than proven the dangers of such presumption.

"When you were here…" Buffy said softly, every word a caress that further inflated shards of hope that had no reason to be cared for.  "When you were with me before, you…you made me feel…better."

He arched a probing brow.  "Better?"

"You…touched…" The hint of rouge tinted her cheeks, charming him.  He well remembered their encounter.  He had lived on nothing else since.  "You touched me…and it felt…"

His mouth was tugging in a grin, but he didn't want to embarrass her.  Nor did he want to flood his own judgment with hope that led him through a series of falsely lit tunnels to the same drawn, empty conclusion.  "Good?" he suggested softly.

The embarrassment was still there, though her countenance betrayed more a fear of rejection and mockery than her admittance to any sort of want of feeling.  "Yes."  

Spike flashed a dimpled smile.  "Good.  'S s'posed to work like that, luv."

"I know.  But you…you haven't…"

The allure on his face melted just as quickly to vexation.  Haven't…?

Oh.

There was little mistaking in that.  His fingers danced over the tender skin at her thigh, not presuming anything more intimate for the moment.  Though he doubted himself wrong, there was still something very erroneous about acting without permission.  And here he was: granted the same he had always thought himself denied.  She wanted him.  Good God, Buffy Summers wanted him.  His touch.  His comfort.  His caress.  _Him.  _

"I wasn' gonna," he replied softly.  "Not unless you asked me.  Din't know 'f I was…'f you wanted me to…"

The blush in her cheeks was growing deeper.  Bloody mesmerizing.   

"Not because of Dru," he reassured her.  "She'd never stop me from touchin' you, pet.  Only you have that kinda power."  Spike leaned forward and planted a kiss on her forehead, eyes falling shut.  "I never thought you'd let me this close."

"I wouldn't have," she agreed, moaning when his lips found her throat again.  "Never.  Oh…"

There was a rumbled sigh of concession.  He forced his hands to fists and bade himself away with an inward curse.  "We're runnin' low on time, darling," he warned.  "I better—"

Desperation filled her eyes: straight and urgent.  As though she would collapse at command, chains and all.  "No.  Don't go."

The world had not known itself long enough to be deemed this cruel.

"I have to."

"Please, Spike…" There was enough there to tug at whatever will he had left, but the peroxide vampire forced himself to be strong.  To resist her, even if every fiber of his being commanded him otherwise.  "Please don't leave me.  Not again."  Her face was falling with more despair by the second—commanding him with resolute dominance.  "You make me forget.  God, you make me forget.  If you leave, it comes back.  It'll all come back."

Spike swallowed hard, reactionary senses on autopilot.  He couldn't trust himself otherwise.  "I'll be back, Buffy," he said softly.  "You know I will."

The doubt that had been there the first time he told her as much was gone, much to his relief.  There was no reason to suspect him of fallacy now.  Not with what had passed between them.  A blessed so much and a mournful so little.  

"I know," she conceded at last.  "I know.  I just…I…"

"'S killin' me too, pet.  To be this bloody close."  A dark wave overwhelmed him, not terribly unexpected, but sudden all the same.  His mind was not so agreeably engaged.  Not when he saw the evidence of avarice sprawled before him in her barren glory.  The marks embedded in her skin weren't going anywhere, and he didn't want to consider how many new ones lay in wait.  

How she might suffer for his lapse at Angelus's hand.

"'m gonna kill him."

"Spike—"  

"I mean it, Buffy.  This isn't somethin' you can talk me out of…not that that's been a big sellin' point in the past.  I don't care that 'e's not your bloody Angel.  I don' care that 'e has a pretty li'l clause that'll make all this forgivable.  I don'—"

"It's not his fault."

The words made him burn with insufferable fury.  "'S not yours, either.  An' of the two of you, I wager I'd find more fault with tall, dark, an' brooding."  He caressed her cheek absently.  "'m gonna kill him, Buffy.  Make no mistake of that."

There was nothing but silence for a long minute, her eyes bland but imploring his all the same.  In evidence  of her searching for motive.  For reason of being.  For anything.  There was life there.  Life hidden beneath layers of hardened shell.  As though she was trying to reemerge even when baring herself completely was at its most dangerous.  It took only seconds to recognize what she was doing.  What she was looking for.  What she needed to find with such desperation that it took him asunder a whole new wave of awe.

She was reading him.  She was looking into him.  The notion touched him more than perhaps anything he had ever felt—more than her kisses, her acceptance, her pleasured moans as he helped her forget for just a little while where she was.  Buffy had never gazed at him with a want of learning.  She had always seen what there was to see in the eyes of a Slayer.  She had always seen what every good little Chosen One should.  And despite her reasoning, she had never attempted to look beyond that.  Burdened and scorned happily within her prejudice.  There was only one vampire that she would ever accredit leniency, and he had betrayed her.  Betrayed her in every since of the word, even if the circumstances were not directly of his will.

Angel would not have wished this upon her, and Spike would kill anyone who had.  Angel would have risked everything to get her out.  Angel, despite reputation, likely wouldn't have displayed as much patience as the platinum Cockney felt he had exercised.  Angel wouldn't have crumpled to look at her, even if it was tearing him up.  He was a stone façade in any context.  

But the Angel in her recollection had a soul.  Spike did not.  Yet here he was.  Risking the same.  Risking, perhaps, more than the same.  Sharing her tears.  Fighting her fights.  Giving her everything with no question as to what he was owed in turn.  Everything that conventionally defied a vampire was lost on him.  And Spike was a vampire.  He was a vampire of the strictest sense.  A vampire that relished, that killed, that felt no pity or remorse.  

Except that he did.  And he was here now. That meant everything.  The vengeance burning his gaze would not go unpaid.  Because he was here.  Because he was sincere.  

Perhaps pain had calloused her feelings on the matter.  The line defining right and wrong was so damn blurry.  Spike saw himself through her eyes.  Saw _him, _not Angel.  Saw the acceptance that she made not only of him, but what he had sacrificed—risked—to be with her now.  Saw that while he bore no marks of consequence, his wounds were just as deep as hers.

For the world, he looked a man ready to avenge the woman he loved.  And he wouldn't stop for anyone.  Not even her.

Angel's blood would not come at his expense.  While there was no love lost between the two vampires, this had nothing to do with their notorious dislike of each other.  And perhaps that was what defined it.  What unclouded her judgment.  Angelus had killed Jenny Calendar, and that was enough to sentence him.  What he was doing now—to her, to civilians, to Spike—merited a second turn.  And there was no Willow here to help him.

Perhaps with as much as she had at once loved Angel, these crimes stood for no forgiveness.  Either way, the matter was out of her hands.  That much was more than obvious.  And Buffy would not begrudge her champion for it.  

"All right," she whispered.  

Spike stared at her as though attempting to decipher whether she meant it.  Her eyes could not lie to him.  

Thus he smiled.  "Thank you."  It felt an odd thing to say.  Gratification for her approval of killing a former lover.  But times like these were not meant for logic.  Not with a Slayer of Slayers rescuing the victim of his own prey.  The same that had taken his heart, even if she didn't know herself to be a theft.  The words were blunt and true.  No want of further feeling could come from them.  "I…what 'e's done to you…'s killed me."

Selfish.  Killed him.  She was the one being tortured.

And yet, surprisingly still, she smiled her understanding.  "I know.  I don't know _why, _but I know."

A moment of complacent stillness.  For perhaps the first time, they truly knew each other.

It couldn't last long.  Soon, Spike was pulling away, shades of regret shadowing his face.  "I gotta go."

And again, instant denial.  She wouldn't let him leave for the world.  "No."

"Buffy…'ll be back for you."

"When?"

"As soon as I bloody can."

He might have just declared it years; her eyes flooded with tears once more.  How he hated that look on her, knowing that he caused it. And yet, there was resignation.  Pain from both her heart's tug and the worn, abused muscles affixed within an equally abused body.   "I know," she whimpered.  However, there was more.  There was always something more.  And even after she spoke again, she seemed surprised at the sudden bout of desperate neediness clinging to her voice.  A tone overwhelmed with unnamed emotion.  "But, please.  Please.  If you're going to…"

That was it.  He couldn't help himself if he tried.  Spike edged closer, nudging her brow with his.  "What do you need, baby?  What can I do?"

Her eyes drifted shut.  "Just make it go away.  I don't care how long.  Just…please…I need…"

There was nothing else to be said.  He nodded his understanding.  "Like before?"

"You can…" Despite the tears, the blush was back, affecting him just as sharply as before.  He didn't reckon there was a move she could make that would fail to influence him in some fashion or another.  "You can…"

It was possibly the only time that Spike felt safe enough to listen to her body for everything she couldn't yet trust with words.  He smothered the grin that fought to break across his face, afraid that she would interpret him in an unflattering light.  The mere thought of caressing her intimately spoke for every privilege he thought himself unworthy.  

His own needs would go ignored.  He tuned them out as though it had always been so simple.  This wasn't about him; it never had been.

"Okay," he murmured, brushing a nearly chaste kiss across her forehead.  Then slowly, thoughtfully, he began to descend down the taut length of her, nibbling and licking a wet path as he went.  He paused briefly to make gentle, however arousing play with her nipples, but his venture prompted him further southward; not content until he was on his knees, hands softly caressing her thighs to relax her.

He felt her tense as though her skin was naturally resistant to him.  Quivering at the touch of a vampire.  Spike did not find offense—he could not.  Not with what she had suffered.  It had been his kind that made this of her.  That had done this to her.  They had reduced a pure beacon of light into something that cowered under sheltered beauty.  He knew that she did not think herself particularly desirable and perhaps would not for the rest of her days.  The atrocities that she had endured had the ability to slash the source of any woman's self value.  Where the essence of her conscience resided.  

He was more than determined to prove her wrong.

"Relax," he breathed against the welcoming warmth of her, nuzzling lightly into the nest of curls that guarded him from the delicacy waiting for his touch.  Her scent was driving him wild.  It would be a miracle if he did not find himself dust at her feet by no other whim than his haven before all was through.  

"I am."  

The Slayer was notably not the most gifted of liars.  Not when it came to such things.

"Buffy, I don' have to—"

"No."  She strained as far forward as she could, overwhelming him with the trust of gesture.  "Please…oh, God, please.  Please."

Spike's gaze traveled heatedly up the length of her, the pureness of her scent sure to do him in.  She was breathing heavily, her head thrown back and her eyes closed; a look of thoughtful concentration mapping her face.  It amazed him that she could ever doubt her beauty.  That she could doubt that he wanted her, regardless of what had become of her body.  True, every inch of flesh was caked with something other than her innate goodness, but it presented her with light that only emphasized her strength.  Her stamina.  Her _everything.  _

She was moaning at his fingertips.  Panting, pleading, begging _him _to touch her.  The doubt that had harbored his stomach roused once more with caution, but he would not listen to it.  Buffy knew who he was, what he was, and had asked him for this.  Asked him to relieve her pain, if only for a minute.  And despite whatever consequence his actions might produce, he would never refuse her.

Slowly, intently, he lowered his mouth to the warm wetness that awaited his touch, indulging in nibbling licks that all had the same objective.  His teeth scraped purposely against her inner thigh, eyes glued to her face to indulge all her reactions.  The beads of sweat that had lined her forehead had multiplied without command.  There because they were there.

"Please," she begged.

"Baby want somethin'?"

A scowl befell her.  He didn't think she could look menacing if she tried; even had her arms and legs been free.  "Evil."

He chuckled.  "Always."

She pouted when she saw he was poking fun at her duress, though the light in her eyes contested anything she might have wanted him to believe otherwise.  "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's not nice to tease torture victims?"

The words struck that haunting chord within, but Spike pushed his innate sense of retribution aside.  If she was not bothered by it, he would not assume to highlight how it troubled him.  How he hated to think of her as such and have no place to change it with the rapidity he so desired.  But he smiled anyway. Kindly.  Lovingly.  "Sorry luv," he murmured against her.  "Must've missed that memo."

Then he licked a wet trail up her slit, and his eyes nearly rolled back at the richness of her taste.  It had been a sample, really.  Nothing more than a sample.  But _God, _it stirred emotions that he did not believe could become more potent.  To have the flavor of her yearning for him—_him—_on his tongue was more than he ever thought he could touch.  She had pushed his belief beyond boundaries of understanding in more ways than one.  

"So sweet," he murmured, fingers skimming up her leg to play.  He felt her skin sprout shivers in turn and the notion enchanted him.

"Ohhhh…"

His mouth returned to her, nibbling softly at her moist folds.  He maintained an inward smile when she strained against him.  It was too little to be so much.  Spike had long prided himself in being a purely sexual being, but for all his experience and usual control, nothing could have prepared him for this.  For touching her so lightly and relishing the reaction received—his just as, if not more powerful than her own.  He was lapping at her, cherishing her taste.  Her warmth.  The ambrosia that she willingly gave him.  It was pure Buffy, and it drove him wild.

Spike managed to maintain purpose.  He wanted to draw this out as long as possible, and while his motives at present were about as pure as the yellow driven snow, the reminder remained steadfast in its insistence that this had nothing to do with him.  It was about her.  About making her feel as much nonpain as possible before he left her side.  Before he crawled away to the real world and abandoned her for the likes of what Angelus would do.  For what had passed.  

"Oh God," she gasped headily.  "Spike.  Oh God."

Of course, if she kept on like that, he wasn't sure he could maintain command of himself.  

"Please," Buffy whimpered, her voice burdened with fraught passion that even she had thought long dead.  "More.  Please.  I need…oh God—" She buckled against her bindings when his tongue came closer to penetration, and he immediately pulled back, not wanting to cause her more pain.  "No!  Please more.  Please.  God, I need you."

Spike froze.  His eyes met the desperation in hers, but for the first time since seeing her, it wasn't her that his thoughts favored.  He wasn't even sure that it was himself.  "What did you say?" he asked, voice barely audible even to his ears.

"I need you," she repeated, evidently missing the significance of such a confession.  With so little having been said, he found it amazing, even in this situation, that she would give him that much.  That she _could _give him that much.  And that she didn't even realize what it was.  What it meant for her.  For him.  For both of them.  "God, Spike…I need you so much."

A moan of concession tore through his throat.  He caught her swollen clit between his teeth, enveloping the needy bud without ceremony.  He nibbled at her.  Tasted her.  Rubbed her sensitive skin between his teeth with rough gentility.  Nimble fingers caressed her labia before his mouth took over.  He tasted every inch of her, claiming her all over.  When he tasted the blood that had driven him off just two days before, he suckled at it.  Greedy.  Desperate.  Not hurting her.  He would never.  But at some point, will and rationality had abandoned him.  He was inebriated with her taste, and her words were the driving force that saw him home.

She mewled his name again, her heated cries becoming frenzied.  When his attention returned to her clit, the words that had been fighting her sensibility abandoned her without merit.  His tongue encircled her once, twice, and drew her inward once more.  The whimpers rumbling from her throat shot straight to his crotch; he was so hard that he couldn't believe the flimsy zipper separating him from entrapment and relief had held.  Every lick was serving to make him more lost.  His hands ached to see to his relief, but he knew that to leave her body in any form would see the rightful end of him.  He couldn't stop touching her.

"God," he gasped into her skin.  The vibrations he sent against her only fueled her ardor further.  "You taste so good."

"Ohhhhh…"

He wasn't sure if she had heard him or not, but her hips thrust forward in sharpened frenzy.  That was it.  All it took.  His tongue delved inside her sweetness, searching and finding, seeking and needing.  He stroked and lapped and took up all he could.  He was a selfish bastard; there wasn't a sip of this nectar that would go to waste, not a taste that he would concede to another.  The tips of his fingers found her clit and caressed with gentleness that offset the ferocity he was attempting to keep at bay.  He had tasted perfection and the unspoken suggestion that he might have to give it up was enough to bring out the monster he had spent weeks repressing since his feelings knew light.  He found that perfect spot within her and probed relentlessly—even after he felt her start to tense.  Even as the ripples of orgasm rode through her.  Even as he knew this was when he was supposed to pull away and return to the world outside.  The world darkened because it was denied her light.  The world he was here for.  The world that had given him her, only to rip her away again.

Spike's hands clutched at her thighs in desperation as the echo of her euphoria died around them.  He held her so tight he began to fear hurting her further, rationality pouring back into him as his arms loosened and drew her near.  A soft whimper pushed through his lips and his head found solace against the flat of her stomach.  It took a few seconds to realize that when his vision blurred, it wasn't because of the passion that had overwhelmed him.  

Now that he had been given this much, he didn't think he could ever let her go.  The strain of what he was—the trueness in his character—was beating him without relent.  And until that moment, he realized, he had not known himself.  Not known the weight of what he felt.  The emotion playing his insides, the rawness of suggested despair, everything to mark him time and again would wear him out before he could identify the cause.

He knew it was true.  In those seconds, he knew without doubt that he loved her.  Loved with more than he was worth.  There had been no doubt before, but now there was no question, either.  It was beyond infatuation.  Beyond desire.  Beyond everything.  He had never known ardor like this.  Not with anyone.  And it terrified him. Spike was not accustomed to being frightened.  He couldn't remember a point in his unlife that had left him so barren that he didn't know if continuing was an option.  He had claimed it so with Drusilla, but that was nothing compared to this.  Nothing compared to the warm, pliable body in his arms.  

The same meant to damn him and serve as his salvation.

And he knew, he knew.  Saving her now was more than rescuing the woman he loved.  Saving her was more than anything he could have hoped to grasp.  It was decided then.  Regretless.  For the air he did not need to breathe, for the tears he was not supposed to shed.  She was his anchor.  His light.  Touching her was to touch the sun and feel only warmth without the burn.  No one deserved to know that sort of radiance.  

He had to save her.

If he did not, there would be no one to save him from himself.

No one.

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Nine: _Bottle of Red Wine_


	30. Bottle of Red Wine

A/N: My apologies for the delay.  FF.NET has been acting up for the past few days, thus I was apprehensive about posting.  Due to some weird formatting difficulties, the parts that were supposed to be in italics are now in bold.  I wouldn't worry about this normally, but half the chapter is flashbacks and wouldn't make sense without the distinction. Chapter Twenty-Nine 

****

Bottle of Red Wine 

Spike slumped against the elevator, weary as though he had just completed a marathon. Panting.  Exhausted.  Desperate for rest.  That alone was enough to tickle his sense of whimsy: marathons typically didn't bear affect on those who were not dependent on oxygen.  

Oxygen. He wanted it now. Craved it. Futile as it was to his body, he felt he would compress if it were denied of him.

It was too much, he decided. Barely ten minutes had passed since he left Buffy's side, and yet his skin tingled as though still brushing intimately against hers. His nostrils were flooded with her scent. She was all around him. Inescapable. Even with so little separating him, he felt the burden of detachment. As though their physical distance would—in some manner—affect his actions.

Such was dangerous. More than dangerous. For whatever reason, the bond forged between them had grown to near painful proportions in the matter of a simple hour. The connection burned him with ferocious intensity, and there was nothing within the bounds of rationality that could suggest what he was feeling. Beyond love. The foundation of which love was established. He had never thought it possible. Not with the years he had seen, not with which he had been taught to believe based on vampiric law. It was as though she was in him, now, and he could feel everything that she felt. 

All that pain. Confusion. Heartbreak. Outrage. And want.

Oh, so much want.

It would be easy to blame everything on what he had done. What he had nearly forced between them, but he would be wrong. This had been slow coming. It shook him to his very core, and was only growing stronger. With every beat, every unnecessary breath, it became that much more potent.

**He inhaled her. Warm. Complete. Wholly female. And human. Always human. He felt his tears colliding against her welcomed radiance—everything that was and always would be the essential Buffy Summers. He did not know the duration of his lapse against her, though it could not have been long. His arms were tight abound her as though she would disappear on command. That his hold alone was keeping her anchored to a world that did not deserve her.******

****

**There was nothing for long minutes. Nothing but the harsh pant as the mingled jubilation of her orgasm rode its intensity to its lasting peak. There, and then fading once more as the world she had begged him to erase came soaring back. He could almost feel her despair. The aching reminder that she was as she had been yesterday and the day before. As she would be tomorrow and until he came to save her for good. But it wasn't as compelling as it had been before. Sedated, even accepting. The face of her own torment, and he knew it was more than she felt she was owed.******

****

**"Spike?"******

****

**The vampire stirred at that, nuzzled against her protectively. "Sweetheart?"******

****

**"Why are you crying?"******

The elevator soared higher still. Figured the wanker would have an office located on one of the more prestigious floors. He recalled thinking much of the same when he first came to see Lindsey McDonald, but for whatever reason, it bothered him now. Bothered him to the degree of physical handicap. The forced separation between himself and the Slayer was wearing on his senses, especially when he felt her as vibrantly as he did. Felt her. Her pain. Her pain as vividly as though it were his own. The knot in his gut could attest that much, but he reckoned even his own scars would fail to produce this sort of torment.

His mind drifted back, unable do to anything but. He had to admire a woman who got straight to the point. The peroxide vampire smiled poignantly to himself, his own not betraying what he felt. Instead, he rested peaceably against the box wall and thought of her.

**He was at his feet in seconds, hands unwilling to renounce contact, though they did little more than skim along her. He made no effort to hide his tears, hide the affect she had on him. Hide anything when there was nothing more to hide. "I don' wanna leave you," he whimpered against her, knowing he was condemning himself to acknowledge even that much. The strength he bore—the same she relied on—would betray them both. ******

****

**"Don't."******

****

**"Have to."******

****

**She mewled in protest, even if she knew it was the truth. "I'm strong with you here," she whimpered. "Don't go. Please."******

Spike drew a deep, unneeded breath and willed himself closer to McDonald's office. The reaction from those he passed was noteworthy, but otherwise ignored. Angelus was the only of the Aurelius family that had ever walked the halls so openly. The unmarked ringleader of a mistake the Senior Partners were unwilling to correct. It was the sort of thing one knew without making outward reference to. Darla could never be kept under any form of regulated control—she was nearly as bad as her ponce of a childe. However, her business interest had expired. She was infinitely more preoccupied with the populace. With getting things back to the way they used to be.

He feared she was growing envious of Angelus's time with the Slayer. That she would eventually take it upon herself to do the thing he seemed incapable of. Strange. Even with Buffy, Spike had never thought his grandsire to be hesitant on killing anyone. But he was. On a strange whim, he was. And if he thought about it, their time in Sunnydale served as choice enough prospect.

**"'m not gonna let you die 'cause I don' know when to stop." He brushed a kiss over her temple, rippling with her when she shivered her pleasure. He had hesitated then, a dark thought entering his mind without perseverance. It was stupid and dangerous, but not wholly out of the question. Making her stronger did not necessarily constitute anything on a conventional level of understanding. It could be simple. He could make it simple. He could make it anything. ******

****

**But not without permission.******

****

**"Buffy," he said, very slowly. "Listen to me. This is serious, an' we don' have a lot of time. 'E'll be back. Hour's nearly up."******

****

**She blinked at the gravity in his tone. It was different than before. "What is it?"******

****

**"What would you say 'f I told you that there's a way to make you stronger? To make it…easier…to…" ******

****

**"Yes."******

****

**"You 'aven't even heard me."******

****

**"No. But I trust you."******

****

**That confession alone was enough to ground him. He had not considered such a possibility. While true, the weight of her life was literally compound and waiting in his hands, he had not considered that faith in his word, in ****him, would be an ultimate reward. "You're not gonna like it, sweetheart."******

****

**There was a dry snicker at that. "I don't think that matters anymore. Do you?"******

****

**That was true enough. Spike exhaled deeply and rested with her for a minute longer. He knew he was stalling. Dangerous presumption…stalling when their time ran short anyway. She had agreed, of course, but he wanted to make perfectly sure that she knew what she was getting herself into. "Listen. 'll explain."******

****

**"No explain. Just do it."******

****

**"No. I wanna make sure you know what you're askin' for." A sigh rippled through him. "Back in the fifteenth century, a craze broke out across Europe for—"******

****

**"Fifteenth century? Why the history lesson? Spike—!"******

****

**"Listen to me. 'S important." He sighed. "There was a craze goin' through Europe. Wasn' exactly highly regarded by the hierarchy, though rumor has it, they were bloody addicted, too. Mortals who drank vampire blood, thinkin' it'd make 'em all powerful or what all. It din't turn them or anythin'…but it did juice 'em up with power. Some got addicted. A few clans started to huntin' down vamps an' bleedin' them to maintain the high. 'S potent stuff, Buffy. Dangerously potent." His eyes dropped to the ground, unwilling to see the disgust he was certain pooled behind her own depths. "It din't last long for the obvious reasons. More powerful vamps got wind of it an' took the lot of your humanly types out. The craze ended an' vamps were given an even uglier name than before. I only mention it 'cause it works. I know it does."******

Lindsey's office was vacant. The peroxide vampire paused inside, finding that mildly curious. He turned his attention to some of the books that sat estimably for the outward impression. Lawyers by definition usually projected a better appearance if they were well read. Spike didn't reckon that he cared much either way. Some of the titles were laughable, and he wondered of the King James translation of the Bible was there as an additive for a false conscience or a private joke amongst colleagues.

**"You're teasing me."******

****

**He blinked. "Am not."******

****

**"Are so."******

****

**"Why do you think so?"******

****

**"I didn't become addicted-girl after Dracula made me drink from him."******

****

**Ah. That explained it. "Luv, how much did you drink?"******

****

**"Well…not much. A sip, really. But it was gross."******

****

**"Wasn' enough. An' yeah, gross as it might be you bloody pulsers, somethin' tells me you might a bit more open to it now."******

****

**"Don't count on it."******

****

**Spike's eyes narrowed, unsurprised and hardly offended by the expect revoke of her consent. "I'd never even suggest it 'f I din't think it'd help, Buffy. An' I'll be damned before I see you jonesin' for it like they did in the old days. You're a Slayer. It'd work wonders on you." He leaned inward impulsively to kiss her, reveling as she moaned at the taste of herself on his tongue. "I jus' wanna help. As much as bloody possible. An' I don' wanna leave here without knowin' I did everythin' I could to make things better for you."******

****

**Her cheeks tinted at that, the reminder of what had passed between them flooding her eyes and speaking volumes for what she did not. "Have you…" she asked softly. "Did you ever…do this before? Make someone…?"******

****

**"No."******

****

**"Then how do you know—"******

****

**"I watched Angelus an' Darla do it once for kicks. Dragged some poor unsuspectin' into their clutches an' got 'em all doped up on vamp blood. Not a pretty sight, 'specially when the girl started goin' through withdrawal."******

****

**"I don't like the sound of this…"******

****

**"I wouldn't let you get like that."******

****

**She arched a cool brow that remained oddly prestigious in mind of her surroundings. "You'd have a say?"******

****

**"I know how much is too much. Doesn' take an experienced donor to tell you that." Before she could lose herself in the depths of consideration, Spike allowed his bumpies to emerge, biting into his wrist and raising the wound to her lips. "Come on."******

****

**She was hesitant. Hesitant, but not protesting nearly as much as he had suspected she would. Another token suggesting the balance of weighed change. The Buffy Summers of before would never have even considered, especially when balanced in danger such as this. She might have taken the offering from Angel—hell, he ****knew she would have taken the offering from Angel. But he was not Angel. He was Spike, and up until all too recently, she had hated him.******

****

**But she did not hate him now.**

The lawyer's absence from his office was beginning to irritate. With things as they were, the peroxide vampire hardly felt comfortable entrusting everything he had to lose in the hands of a man he had only recently felt any compulsion to trust. It had been several minutes, and while not in keeping with his customary impatience, he had yet to start pacing. As though his encounter with Buffy had drained him of any response other than complacent nonaction. It was dangerous, but his mind was clouded with her. Drunk on the thought of her. 

It had startled him—moved him more than he cared to acknowledge.

**He pulled away when he felt her disgust turn to desperation, despite the cruelty in gesture. Any more could prove fatal for both of them, and she was not completely beyond her fear of addiction, or worse, transformation. She had not taken enough to account for anything more than a day's strength, but he was content, if not terrified.******

****

**Buffy seemed to sense this. Her eyes became large and inquisitive, betraying a small shudder when he leaned inward and licked his own blood from the corner of her perfect mouth. Then he released a trembling sigh against her, closing her eyes and crooning against her. "Please don' hate me for this."******

****

**"For what?" There was no answer; there was no need for one. Watching her eyes soften warmed his insides. "For this? For making me…I trust you, Spike. After everything…you've earned trust…and more than that."******

****

**Her words soothed, but he did not wholly believe them. ******

****

**"Hey. Look at me."******

****

**The command in her voice made him smile. The blood was working wonders already. And Spike complied. He was helpless to do anything but.******

****

**"You've done more for me than anyone," she said seriously, and he saw that she meant it. The notion was enough to prompt the tears that had warmed his eyes only minutes earlier to rekindle their flow, but he did not want to cry in front of her. Once was enough. Twice was inevitable. Again would reveal too much, though he doubted at this point that he had anything left to hide. "I can't…I can't begin to—"******

****

**"Then don't," he whispered. "But there is somethin' I need you to do for me."******

****

**She nodded. Amazing. Unquestionable faith. There was no hesitation in her eyes. Whatever it was, she would comply. And that was all there was to it.******

****

**Spike inhaled deeply and raised his wrist to her lips, flinching when she instinctively neared. That wasn't what he wanted, and he knew damn well that Buffy loathed the idea of being dependent on blood. She hated blood, and he would never understand why she chose to believe him in this particular venture, just grateful that she had. "You have to make it look like a bite," he said. "Your bite. Like you were tryin' to…I need you to make it look like you hurt me."******

The vampire knew the minute that he was no longer alone—knew well before the office doors swung open to admit its proprietor. He knew Lindsey's scent well by now, too well to be doubted. 

McDonald was on his cell phone, evidently no more surprised to see him. They merely looked at each other; the lawyer nodded and held up a hand to signify his need to end the call. Spike nodded in turn and pivoted to the book stand once more in some old fashioned respect of giving the man privacy. He didn't know from where that whim had originated; he had never been polite and wasn't looking to adapt any of the customary habits that coincided with being such. Common courtesy was notoriously lost on him.

Perhaps it was different with foes-turned-ally. So much had passed that he no longer recalled. 

**"I didn't hurt you, did I?"******

****

**He grinned at her concern but shook his head. To be honest, he was surprised. Though he knew her to be properly fueled with more than enough to get her through the next span of hours—hopefully to tide her until he and his friends from Angel Investigations made their move—he had not expected her to react so favorably at his request. She had not liked the idea though she understood its importance. Not only did the scent of her lingering climax taint the air, but if Angel got a whiff of Spike's blood, unpleasant questions were going to be asked, and given the nature of their last meeting, the elder vampire might simply tire of mind games and kill them both.******

****

**Truth be told, Spike was surprised that it hadn't already come down to that.******

****

**"I'll be back," he promised her, claiming her lips in an ardent kiss. "Before you bloody know it."******

****

**Buffy matched him for everything he gave. The taste of his blood on her tongue nearly caused him to double over in pleasure, and while she could not doubt the evidence of his desire, he made no attempt to act upon it. "I know you will," she answered when they pulled apart. "Because you love me."******

****

**And the simplicity—the understanding—in that statement had left him thoroughly defeated. If there was ever a time that he could hide himself from her, he did not recognize it. She saw him and knew. She knew. Buffy knew that he loved her, and she accepted him. Trusted him. ******

****

**He could not acknowledge or deny her. Even now, he lacked the courage for it. ******

****

**And he had left her.**

"I hope you have not been waiting long."

A snicker at that.  The vampire's brows perked.  "Depends on the context."

The lawyer's face broke out into a wan smile, and his tipped his head in acknowledgement.  "Touché."  A beat later, and he broke across the floor for the minibar that sat parallel the bookshelves.  "Would you like something to drink?"

Spike's eyes narrowed, his patience already absolved. It didn't take much these days.  "Bugger the pleasantries, Skippy. Whaddya got for me?"

Lindsey nodded his understanding, finding no need to contest though he went about his business anyway. "I believe that I have found a loophole in the magic that protects Buffy's chains from breaking. I just got off the phone with someone that can help us."

A sigh rumbled through his throat. "We're bringin' in more independent wankers? Bloody no. I jus' now got Zangy to trust me. Listen, McDonald, I appreciate everythin' you've done, but we're gettin' too close to worry with what may or may not work. Cordy's got this plan…'s not very good, but I'm already fancyin' it more than whatever you've got cooked up. Black magic can't be bypassed. You oughta know that."

"In any other circumstance, I'd agree with you," Lindsey said readily, handing him a glass of Amarone without looking at it. The gesture threw the vampire off for a minute, but did not deter him from objective. It was not an act of manipulation, rather civility, and that he could appreciate.  "You're right. Absolutely. But in cases such as these, there is only one thing that can undo an enchanted shackle other than its key."

Spike arched a cool brow, sipping at his drink. "Oh. An' what is that?"

"The warlock I just got off the phone with. Very prestigious, but his rates are negotiable, and he owes us a few favors."

That was it. His interest was piqued. "Who is this?"

"The same…well, not a man, but client that made Buffy's bindings. He's the only one who can undo them, aside the key bearer."

Relief was a funny thing. It didn't take much to alter Spike's disposition. A magic-prone locksmith sounded oodles better than the lame and voted-most-likely-to-fail plan that Cordelia had up her sleeve. This was it. It could work. It bloody well had to. "Bloke got a name?"

"There are some who call him—"

Spike held up a hand in warning. "'F you say Tim, I'm gonna bite you."

"—Gregori." McDonald had to look away, shadow of an amused smile tainting his face. "But Tim works fine, too. Although, as I told you, he's a warlock—not an enchanter."

"Ha bloody ha."

Lindsey shrugged insolently. "You're the one that suggested it."

There was no sense in denying that.  Spike opted with a dirty look, maneuvering to the chair opposite the lawyer's desk.  He waited until the other man was seated before continuing.  "So, what's all that, then?  We wait around until this bloke agrees to get her out?"

"He's agreed."  

"An' this is the type of gent who respects his verbal contracts?"

"Absolutely." It was amazing how absolutely no hesitation hid behind that statement.  McDonald believed it with every fiber of his being.  Remarkable.

"You have no doubt?"

"Like I said, he owes us a favor."

The vampire's brows perked with interest.  "I see.  Interestin'.  'Cause you see, you better be sure that he's the type of guy who holds up to his bargains.  Now I got my heart set on—"

Lindsey rolled his eyes.  "Look, Spike, don't try to threaten me.  I'm your best connection and I know you're not going to do anything to mess with that.  Despite what your associates might think, you are an intelligent man, and I think you see that if I'm gone, your chances for getting Buffy out are as well.  We're all sharing our part of the blame here."

"Some more than others."

His eyes averted to his desk.  "Yes," he agreed.  "I won't deny it.  Had I known what she was going to be put through, I would've done everything in my power to get her out of here when it was under my control.  That's my fault and I assume all responsibility."  He glanced up once more, gaze serious.  "I thought I was in love and that bringing her in would…I don't know what I thought.  Whatever it is, you can't imagine how…"

At that, the vampire's demeanor softened, albeit not by much.  "I promised her," he said, "that the next time I came to her, it'd be to get her out.  An' it will be.  You hear me?"

"Yes."  There was no resentment, only understanding.  

"An' 'f your bloke doesn' come through?"

"He will.  I know he will."  A pause.  One must always consider the extraneous possibilities, despite how distant they seemed.  "But if something happens…if he doesn't…I'll do what I have to.  Whatever I have to."

"Even 'f—"

Lindsey glanced up, eyes stilling him with ready anticipating.  "Whatever I have to," he said softly.  

A sigh then.  The vampire considered him a long beat, nodding when he saw it was true.  And there was nothing else to say.  Nothing else to verify.  He could not ask for more than that.  A vouch of good faith.  They were covered from all corners.  It was only a matter of hours now.

Hours.

"There is something, though," Lindsey continued, "that I want you to do for me."

Ah, here it comes.  

"I see," Spike drawled, leaning back expectantly.  The underline of venom in his voice was impossible to ignore.  "An' what might that be?"

"Regardless of what happens to me, or to her, I want you to kill Angelus."  The stone façade in his eyes would not be contested.  In this, the lawyer was most definitely unmoved.  "And at this point, I don't care if the Senior Partners get pissed off or not.  Wolfram and Hart is not in a place to remove him, even though he has not served up his part of the bargain that he and—"

"Hold up, mate.  Lemme get this straight.  All I gotta do—"

"Is kill Angelus.  That's it.  No strings."  

The vampire snickered.  "No strings?  Rot.  I've eaten my fair share of lawyers, so I know what they hunger for. There are always strings."

"Not in this.  I just want him dead."

The peroxide Cockney stared at him.  That was it?  The end?  It couldn't be, but the look on Lindsey's face did not resemble treachery.  In this, he was absolutely certain.  The bill was a dead Angelus, something he had banked on from the beginning?  Well, that was too perfect.  Perfect.

"I tell you what," Spike said, kicking his feet onto the desk and raising his glass.  "You drive a hard bargain."

"I'm sure."  The cynicism in his voice did not reach his eyes, and for whatever reason, Spike found that even more reassuring.  Eyes were far more telling than intonation.  "Do we have an understanding?"

"An' more so."  The vampire flashed a grin.  "I'll even drink to it."

**To be continued in Chapter Thirty: Fallen****…**


	31. Fallen

**Chapter Thirty**

**Fallen**

It was amazing.  Though she had seen the sun rise many times before, it had never been like this.  And Dawn doubted very much that she would ever tire of the sight.  The first peeks of light over the still English horizon, pouring golden drops of lemonade across the plains that she had come to know as home over these last weeks.  Funny how a new place could become home so quickly.  Funny, but not wholly unexpected.  

In truth, they hadn't been in England all that long. It felt like it.  The past few days had seen little alleviation in habit.  Dawn was still on California time—she felt she had to be.  That was where Buffy was.

Sleep was a near impossibility, despite Giles's prompt.  Rest came in short spurts, almost always forced if she did not exhaust herself.  Most nights saw her collapse in the sitting room; curled on the couch or resting against the table.  The Watcher always found her.  Always coaxed her to her room before her mother saw her and thought to worry.  Having Buffy to consider was bad enough, he said, and Joyce was in no state to add her to a list of growing concerns.

She did enjoy English mornings, though.  Her falsified memories recalled well what life in Los Angeles had been like.  The hurry.  The noise.  The busywork.  While making the necessary transition from a large town to a smaller location, it had undoubtedly been for the best.  Even the Hellmouth was an improvement over a refuge for teenage runaways and drug hangs.

For a long time, she had resented her sister in instigating such a drastic change.  The proclaimed City of Angels was hardly an ideal town to know her adolescence; a move of such magnitude was more than burdensome.

The sky had won her over.  Not clouded by the expected layer of smog.  Just bright, fervent stars that glazed over a dark, never-ending blanket.  An endless sugar jar that sparkled at her—demanding that she sample its sweetness.

The newness had worn off, of course, as most things did; her admiration for the stars notwithstanding.  She was a teenager, after all, and maintaining any level of interest proved more than challenging.  But it was always there.  An afterthought.  A dark beauty to keep her company while her sister patrolled.

England was different, and not only in the obvious ways.  Dawn doubted she could ever stop staring at the clarity of the night sky.  That she would ever tire of watching the sun pour its warmth over the open countryside.  How Giles had found this place, she did not know.  Perhaps it was a family estate.  Perhaps it belonged to the Council.  He had mentioned its tenure, she knew, but she hadn't been listening at the time.  

Her mother was sick.  Her sister was gone.

And Spike was off to rescue her.

It wasn't as though it was a surprise.  Dawn had sensed the vampire's feelings long before even he had.  And in all honesty, he was so bad at hiding them.  She remembered the night that he came home with her for the first time.  The infamous conversation that she watched in secret rather than participated. They were going to take Angelus out.  Together.  United in what turned out to be the first of many alliances.  And true, while his heart was pledged to Drusilla at the time, she saw how he looked at her sister.  That sheath of hatred that only barely covered the mixed confusion and longing beneath.  She had been too young to know what she was seeing, but the image never left her.  

The past few months had been a severe eye opener.  Dawn was fourteen now.  She was still young, of course, but she was well into the stage where marketing what guys were feeling was all based on the eyes.  She lacked her sister's confidence in school, always felt more the punch line rather than the comedian.  But she was good at reading people.  Very good.  And prior to this unfortunate mess, Spike's behavior had been even stranger than usual.  It hadn't taken long to piece together.  Starting from the initial night three years prior, she had been able—very quickly—to arrive at a conclusion that satisfied her.  Spike loved her sister.  Good for him.  True, that pretty much screwed her chances of ever attracting his eye, but that had been a poor gamble to begin with.  Even if she lived to be the oldest woman in history, she would always be regarded as the baby.

So was the woe of being the youngest child.

And she was the youngest.  The youngest fourteen year-old in the world.  She hadn't even lived a full year.  Not really.  Memories were just, but they were nothing more than pictures.  Images.  Things some monks wanted her and her family to believe in order to keep a hellbitch from getting her hands drenched in Key-blood.

They were on immensely high alert.  While reports on Glory since leaving California had been few and far between, Dawn figured that the Scoobies needed an excuse to not think of where their Slayer was.  Thus the days had been filled with endless research.  Willow and Tara spent hours perfecting their craft, enhancing the protective, however unseen barrier that kept them concealed from the outer world.  It was not infallible, they explained, but were Glory to show up, they would be well aware and prepared before the insane-perm-gone-wrong-bitch could get her hands on them.

Buffy was not in their conversations.  She did not make visits to the dinner table.  She did not drift in and out of research sessions.  She was, for all intents and purposes, shunned from the manor even if she had a permanent place in the luxury room.  Dawn never doubted that she was in their thoughts.  It was easy to see.  The constant worry that befell Giles's face was not for her or her mother; she would not fool herself.  Xander's eyes were always empty and sad, even when he was laughing at something Anya said or playing a board game with the rest of the gang.  Even the former vengeance demon herself was surprisingly taciturn on the matter.  There was an unspoken code.  They couldn't mention Buffy.  Couldn't.  It was too easy to refer to her in the past tense, and that was something that no one was prepared for.

It had bothered Dawn at first.  The thought that they were to pretend Buffy was all right—or worse—nonexistent.  She wanted to talk about her sister.  Wanted to discuss possible venues they could explore when waiting for Spike seemed to be an endless sentence.  But that passed, as things often did, and she learned that silence was a virtue.  As long as they did not mention her sister, she would always be alive.

God, how many days had gone by?  How many more would she greet?  Would she see an end to it?  The English countryside was lovely, but she would gladly forfeit all chance of ever seeing it again just to know that Buffy was safe.  That Spike had come through.  That he had saved her as he promised he would, and all was well.

She wanted to go home.  She wanted to go home so badly.  

"Hey Dawnster," came the soft inquiry from behind, followed by the belated warning creak in the floorboard.  "You're up early."

She glanced over her shoulder, forcing a smile to her face.  "Morning, Willow."

"You all right?"

"Peachy keen.  Peachy keen is me."

The redhead smiled back and nodded.  "Good, good.  I'm gonna try my hand at some breakfast.  Wanna help?"

"I think I'm gonna stick to cereal this morning, but—sure—I can help."

There was a curious pause.  "You sure you're all right?" she asked a minute later.  "You seem to be Deep Thought gal this morning."

"I'm fine," Dawn reassured her, turning her eyes back to the horizon.  The sun was rising higher.  She wondered if that meant it was nighttime in California.  Despite her body's resistance to the time change, she had been at a loss for time since her watch broke earlier last week.  

A bitter chuckle erupted untimely from her lips.  Broken watches.  Her sister was being tortured or turned or worse and she was sitting across the globe in a perfect English cottage, watching the sunrise and worrying about broken watches.

That was all it took.  In seconds, Willow had sealed the distance between them, coaxing the girl into her embrace.  From where her will crumpled, she did not know.  There were tears suddenly.  She hadn't cried over Buffy since they left California, but by god, she was crying now.  

"Shhhh," the Witch murmured, stroking her hair softly as she rocked them back and forth.  "It's okay, Dawnie.  It's okay."

"No," the girl protested, shaking her head.  "It's really, really not.  I'm so worried, Will.  I'm so…it's not fair.  I didn't get to say goodbye.  I didn't—"

"No goodbyes, sweetheart," the redhead reassured, even if her voice betrayed her.  It was admirable but annoying all the same.  If living in Sunnydale had taught her anything, it was that saying goodbye was the only certainty there was in life.  But Buffy had always been invincible.  She had always prevailed.  Always survived.  It never occurred to Dawn that neglecting to bid her farewell before an evening's patrol would result in the largest burden her small, unlived shoulders had known.  As sisters, they had always been on the outs.  Always fought.  Always bickered about this and that.  She had always resented Buffy for her superiority, for being the one the others favored, for being the Slayer.  But with that came boundless love and unfathomable respect.  If she lost Buffy without letting her know that, she would never forgive herself.

"I miss her," she sobbed into the Witch's sweater.

"I know, honey.  We all do.  But hey—no worries!  We'll—"

"Don't.  Don't do that."  Dawn pulled away hastily, jabbing at her tears, angry that she had revealed them to begin with.  So many days gone without crying, it didn't make sense why this would be the breaking point.  Of course, if not yesterday, why not today?  It was inevitable either way.  "Don't pretend around me, Will.  Just be honest.  I can't stand this pretending.  It's…it's not right.  Buffy's out there, and we're…"

A trembling sigh escaped Willow's lips.  "I know," she agreed.  "But Spike's with her.  He wouldn't let her down."

"Xander doesn't seem to think so."

"What?"  The Witch's face fell into an unfriendly frown.  "What has he said to you?  God, that little worm.  I could wring his neck!  Or better yet, turn him into a newt.  Stupid guy never learns when to not talk.  I—"

"Don't turn Xander into anything.  He's told me nothing.  It's just obvious."  When she didn't readily agree, Dawn rolled her eyes.  "Come on, I don't have to have magical powers to know that.  Just looking at him's enough.  He doesn't trust Spike any more than he would trust Anya with a Playgirl centerfold."

That remark earned a wry grin.  "I think he does," she said softly.  "I mean, sure, Spike's done the entire 'I hate you because I'm evil' thing, but really, if Xander was paying any attention the night that he came by—"

"You told me that he accused Spike right off."

At that, Willow fidgeted uncomfortably.  "Well…he did…but…" That wasn't helping.  With a dejected sigh, she shook her head and shifted to lean against the wall.  "Look, for what it's worth, I think if Spike's gotten this far…or as far as he was, last we heard from him, we don't have much to worry about.  No news is good news, right?"  No reply.  Just endless staring at the sun-kissed plane.  "If anything, Spike knows that he has to get her back.  'Cause if he doesn't, he's gonna get his ass kicked by the Scooby Gang."  

Dawn grinned weakly.  "You better believe it."

The Witch's arm found its way around the girl's shoulders again and contented itself to give her a good squeeze.  "Come on, short stuff.  Let's get cookin'."

"Short stuff?  I'm taller than you."

"I was referring to your aura, thank you very much."

"I so do not have a short aura."

Willow sighed dramatically.  "Fine.  Have it your way.  Why don't you go feed Miss Kitty Fantastico and I'll start us up some pancakes.  No more of this cereal nonsense.  You're too young to be eating healthy, and I know you can't resist pancakes." 

The girl smiled.  "Fine.  Twist my arm, why don't you?"

"Got the wrench all ready."

That was it, then.  The morning would continue as normal.  No more mention of her absentee sister or the vampire antihero that had insisted upon saving her.  Talking about her would not bring her back.  No more salt.  No more wounds.  Just this.  This enduring of whatever there was to endure.

Despite its beauty, Dawn did not think she would miss England.  Rather she found the environment somewhat disconcerting.  In time, she feared her taste for it would spoil completely.  The ground was tainted with the essence of Buffy, always reminding her that she would not be here were it not for things that were far out of control.

The tears that rallied for release were denied.  No sense crying.

There were chores to do.

*~*~*

For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles, Spike had absolutely no idea where to go.  His options were vast in number but nothing could satisfy his whim of exploration, nor his impatience to hurry through the night.  The Hyperion was dangerous, despite its convenience, and he didn't feel right being around the others.  His friends.  There was Caritas, but he didn't want to sing.  He was too afraid of what the Host might see in his future, be it good or bad.

He couldn't turn a corner, mutter a word, have a thought without referring to her.  How much had changed without having changed at all.  The feel of her against his skin haunted him.  His lips ached with the taste of her kisses.  The experience was unlike anything he had thought to feel before.  The plethora of light.  

Perhaps it was the exchange of blood.  Of course, there hadn't been an exchange—he had given her his blood to strengthen her; he had not taken any of hers for himself.  It seemed to connect them, though, on a level he was unprepared for.  And even before.  Mostly before.  Touching her.  Reveling her taste in his mouth.  Being handed freely all the things he previously thought himself denied.  

It was too much; his thoughts were too compact, too confusing for his muddled translation.  There was nothing new to process for what was essential.  The Slayer was being held by Angelus, and he had to get her out.  Simple as that.

And thanks to Lindsey McDonald, they had a somewhat decent plan.

Okay, a very decent plan.  It was merely a matter of timing.  

Spike snickered roughly to himself.  Funny.  Wolfram and Hart—more particularly—Lindsey had him exactly where he was most vulnerable.  He would do anything to get Buffy out.  Anything.  No task was too small to merit attention, no challenge too great to intimidate him.  And yet, the price demanded was so small.  So insignificant.  The blood of Angelus was already on his hands; it simply had yet to manifest.  He would kill the bastard.  And he would enjoy every minute of it.

In the end, the peroxide vampire opted for Wright's discarded motel room.  The hunter had claimed that the bill was paid throughout the rest of the month, and he doubted that such had changed, despite the granted accommodations at the Hyperion.  It was the safest bet, after all.  No one would think to look for him there.  Angelus might follow, but he doubted it—and even so, Spike reckoned his scent was strewn across nearly half the town.  Finding and maintaining a lead would be more than bothersome, even for his influential grandsire.  

Lindsey could find him, and at the moment, that was all the vampire cared about.  The mercenary vampires had tracked him there before, thus he didn't believe that Wolfram and Hart suffered any hindrance of knowing where to look when there was something missing on the grocery list.  He would go there tonight, and tomorrow while the big git slept, he would share the change of plans with the rest of the waiting team at Angel Investigations.

Of course, as always, there was the one crucial thing that Spike didn't think to bank on: that the room was already in use.

Very much in use.

It was a comically delayed moment.  He stood at the doorway, wide-eyed, watching Wright and Cordelia move together in the seemingly endless seconds before they realized that they had an audience.  Then an influx of reaction; he overcame his shock and threw an arm across his face in horror.

"Oh bloody hell!" he growled.  "My virgin eyes!"

All movement came to an abrupt standstill—the panting man on the bed looking over his shoulder frozen in horror.  "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Lookin' for a place to stay," came the dejected reply.  "Well, bugger that idea.  Glad to see you two made up."  That was it.  He left without another word, slamming the door behind him.

A long, awkwardly still moment settled through the room.  Wright slowly glanced down to Cordelia, who, although she was notably not embarrassed, looked a little more than peeved.  "You were right," she commented dryly.  "This was a bad idea."

At that, the trademark smirk that had been her undoing stretched across his face once more.  "Do me a favor.  Don't call it bad until…" He surged powerfully, earning a low moan in turn as the mood took a surprising revival.  "…after.  My ego's only so fragile."

It didn't last.  With seconds, the door had opened again, and Spike strolled inward once more.  The horror from his face had faded, and he regarded the spectacle on the bed as though they were children playing on the schoolyard.  "I jus' wanted to say, good on you, mates.  I knew you two'd pull it off 'f you were given a li'l nudge…" He trailed off in consideration.  "Well, more than a nudge, 'f you ended up—"

Cordelia slammed a hand down on the mattress—markedly out of aggravation rather than reaction.  "Spike!"

Zack looked down at her in disgusted astonishment.  "Don't yell his name while we're…" There was no good word to use in such a situation, thus he opted to gesture inarticulately.

Another awkward beat passed; Spike cleared his throat as though only then recalling what he walked in on.  With an oddly chivalrous nod, he turned to leave once more.  "Right.  Jus' leavin'.  You two—erm—have fun."

By now, the Seer was breathless and nodding emphatically, waving at him to hurry his leave.  "Sure I'll get right on that."

Wright flashed her a wicked smirk.  "Or under it."

"Okay.  Officially scarred for my unlife.  'm gone before the damage is permanent."  And he did.  Left so quickly, no one could mistake his exit the second time around.

"Now…" Zack said, panting a little.  "Where were we?"  He began moving with experimental thrusts that earned him a sharp gasp—Cordelia's hands going to seize his biceps for leverage.  "Ah…now I remember."

*~*~*

It couldn't last.  Spike knew that the minute he left the motel, more disturbed than he wanted to admit.  He wanted to give them their peace, but whatever newfound bliss they were experiencing had to be put on hold.  The years had taught him many things, shown him more than he rightly reckoned he would have ever claimed an interest in, but watching two people have sex with actual feelings was something he wasn't accustomed to.  Angelus had always made a spectacle of himself: fucking Darla or Dru or some victim or all of the above where anyone could see.  That had never bothered him.  Not really.  But knowing what Wright and Cordelia were doing delivered a want of something more.  What they were doing was private because it was more than just the connection.  Granted, that hadn't stopped him from interrupting a second time, but it was personal all the same.

Spike waited, lounged comfortably against the exterior wall, smoking leisurely.  He knew it was only a matter of time.

He was right.  Within twenty minutes, the door to Wright's motel room opened to reveal a disheveled Cordelia working on the buttons to her blouse.  She expressed no surprise at seeing him waiting; rather arched her brows with an uncharacteristic flush and turn to gaze over her shoulder.  "Yeah," she called.  "He's still here."

The peroxide vampire smirked at her.  In seconds the hunter, whose disposition seemed to be a step on the jovial side—atypical, but amusing nevertheless, joined them with a lazy smile.  

Spike cocked his head with an arched brow.  "Top of the evenin' to you," he greeted.

"Oh, you can say that again."

Cordelia whacked his arm.  He merely shrugged, most notably unconcerned.  That prompted an aggravated sigh and a customary roll of the eyes.  "God," she snickered under her breath.  "I sure know how to pick 'em."

The platinum Cockney chuckled his amusement, indulging another puff on his cigarette.  "So," he began, "when'd this happen?"

"We were going for weapons," she stated.  "The stuff he didn't bring with him when you two came here a few nights ago."

There was a twinkle in his eye; Spike was grinning like an idiot.  "An' you what?" he asked the demon hunter.  "Seduced her into your pit of filth an'—"

"Hey!"

"Call 'em like I see 'em, mate."

"Yeah," Cordelia agreed, nose wrinkling.  "I forgot we were here.  Sheesh, you make Doyle's apartment look like a Marriott."

Wright frowned.  "Who's Doyle?"

A poignant look overwhelmed her at that; telling but brief.  "Old friend," she said softly.  "A good old friend.  He's the one that gave me the visions."

"I'm not following…"

"He kissed me before he saved us…me and Angel.  There was this glowy thing and it was gonna kill us and he…" It was odd to see her undertaken with an incursion of emotion, despite the consequence of her regard.  "Anyway, point being, his place was a dump…but not as bad as this."

"I can't believe you're thinking of the décor after—"

Spike held up a hand.  "So, what?  Give you two an enclosed area, an' suddenly you're shaggin' like bunnies?"

There was an uncomfortable beat.

"It was because of the plan," Cordelia said.  "Well, sorta.  We figured we were on the way there anyway…well, at least I did.  I was sorta…the jumper.  You know, just in case it all goes to hell and you guys end up with one dead Seer on your hands."

Wright grunted discontentedly.  "And she wonders why I want her to drop it altogether."

"Hey," she protested.  "We don't have anything better."

"Actually, we do."  Spike smiled thinly when they glanced to him, eyes wide and filled with hopeful inquiry.  If nothing else, Lindsey's plan was the better for the regard of the blooming rose between these two lovebirds.  "Thanks to a lawyer we all know an' resent, I got me a helluva proposition."

The relief rolling from Wright was blatant, and that alone made the announcement all the more worth it.  "What?  What's—"

"Apparently, Lindsey has access to the bloke that made the bloody key in the first place.  Says he's agreed to come in an' undo it."  Spike shrugged.  "Given the lesser of two bad ideas, I'd say his wins the 'let's do it' award, mainly 'cause I think his stands a chance of bein'…oh, I dunno, effective."

"His plan is to call a locksmith?" the demon hunter asked with a grin.

"My plan was effective!" Cordelia growled.

"Yeah," Wright agreed, rolling his eyes.  "A real effective way of getting you killed."

"Watch it."

"Now, now, children," Spike intervened with a condescending smile.  "Let's not make a big thing outta it."

There was a sigh of concession.  "Fine," the brunette offered.  "Fine.  So Lindsey's idea is better.  It would bet—he's a lawyer."

"Right," Zack agreed, rolling his eyes.  "That's the only reason."

She ignored him.  "When's this going down?  We gotta get everyone—"

"No," Spike said.  "Too dangerous with the lot of us goin' in.  Zangy an' I'll handle this alone."

"But—"

"I gotta agree," Wright replied.  "Sounds far less risky with just us."

"You're just looking for an excuse to lay waste to the place."

The two men exchanged a mischievous glance.  "Yeah," they conceded in unison.

"Fine," Cordelia grumbled.  "Fine.  When do you go in?"

"'F all goes accordin' to Lindsey's schedule," the peroxide Cockney said slowly.  "We'll move in tomorrow while the wankers are sleepin' the day away.  In an' out.  No bloody hassle."

"That's it?" Wright demanded skeptically, arching a brow.  "Sweep in, sweep out, presto Slayer?  I don't think so.  Nothing is ever that easy, especially where these guys are concerned.  Hell, Spike, if I know that, then—"

The observation earned a sharp glare that did little to mask the vampire's palpable concerns, but having such blatantly exploited did little to alleviate his disposition.  "Jus' for bloody once," he declared, "we can hope it otherwise.  Either way, I'm gettin' her outta there tomorrow, an' God help the man who stands in my way."  A sigh rolled off his shoulders; he knew he was surprising them with the impact of his seriousness, though he couldn't understand why.  From the beginning, the entire crew had been keenly tuned into his regard as far as Buffy was concerned.  Perhaps they sensed the change in him—amazing, though, for he could hardly sense it himself.  He merely knew it was there.

"Gettin' her out's the priority," he said, tone indicating there would be no dispute.  "Let them kill me firs'.  All right?  Zangy, I know this is a bloody no-brainer, but 'm countin' on you to get her out 'f I can't.  You understand?"

There was a splash of silence laced with uncomfortable shifting.  Not such to betray the notion of camaraderie that had uncannily spread between the two since their haphazard meeting, but hardly enough to mask it.  Amazing how a man so foregone in his cause could revert in mere days.  It had nothing to do with character—Spike didn't doubt that for a minute.  Rather, their likeliness had bound them together.  Unusual friends where no other alliances could be forged.

"I mean it," he reiterated after receiving no reply.  

"I know.  Getting Buffy out's the priority.  I know."  

Another pause.  Spike shrugged a minute later to show his indifference, guarding worry with something that no one thought to identify.  "'S no big concern," he said.  "I plan to be there for the whole bloody ride.  Jus' need a li'l insurance policy's all."

"I get that.  And how."

Cordelia's lips pursed, her demeanor reverting to form.  She appeared no less satisfied with the prospect of Wright in danger than he had when the tables had been reversed, but unlike him, she knew when the barriers of little option blocked them from more agreeable pursuits of truth.  Therefore she turned to Spike, eyes ablaze with understanding.  "Right," she said slowly.  "What do you want us to do?"

Such blatant regard.  Even now, he found this unlikely role in leadership somewhat discomfiting, however appreciated.

"Stay at the hotel," he replied.  "Lindsey'll call 'f there's trouble."

"You sure you won't take Gunn or Wes with?"

"'m sure.  Zangy an' I are all the muscle we need. Relax, pet, 's a simple retrieval.  Once the warlock bloke works his mojo, gettin' her to safety's only a matter of minutes. 'Sides," he added with a somewhat impish grin. "Someone's gotta stay behind an' protect the womenfolk."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."  

Zack smirked but turned to Spike all the same.  "You're staying here tonight?"

"Yeh.  Gotta maintain a low profile.  'll be by early in the mornin'."

"How early's early?"

The Cockney grimaced.  "Too early for a vampire, let's put it that way.  You two better run on…get in a nice long shag before the sun comes up."

"Hey!" Cordelia whacked him again, ignoring the mock-wounded look that slid over Wright's face.

"'Hey!'?" he repeated, only mildly serious.  "Why 'hey!'?"

"Din't mean to get you all skittish," Spike observed with a sneer.  "Jus' thought I'd offer some advice.  Reckon the lot've us are gonna be tense an' hankerin' for relaxation tonight.  Better take it where you can get it."

At that, both parties glared at him.  "Hey!"

He ignored them.  "You two run off," he said.  "Do what you gotta."

The pretense dropped immediately.  Cordelia reached out with sympathy that surprised him still.  "What are you gonna do?"

A sigh.  Spike glanced up, forbidding the all-consuming worry that had dominated him since seeing her that afternoon from pouring through his eyes.  Emotions were piling dangerously, and he knew that if he allowed himself to fall completely that he might rightly never prevail.  "Try an' get some sleep," he answered.  "Try an' see past tomorrow."

Something told him, as all things were, that the task would always be easier said than done.  But he was a stubborn bloke.  He always had to try.

The night was the last Buffy would see in captivity.  He knew that without knowing anything else.  The only questioned that plagued his conscience was the thought that it might be the last she saw at all.  The last he witnessed.  The last for Zack Wright, who did not deserve to be deprived of the bit of happiness he had only now found.

In that, he was doubly determined.  Buffy would get out, and she would get out alive.

Even if he did not.

To be continued in Chapter Thirty-One: _The Last Day_… 


	32. The Last Day

**Chapter Thirty-One**

**The Last Day**

Drusilla was bellowing. 

Well, nothing new there.

"Good God," Darla sneered proudly as she crossed the room to join Angelus on the settee, rolling her eyes.  "I could've sworn we asked Lindsey to make a muzzle for her.  Did we not, my dearest?"

There was a long, disinterested pause before he glanced up.  "I can't imagine why you're surprised," he retorted.  "Asking Lindsey for anything nowadays seems to be too much for your favorite playtoy, the consequence of property notwithstanding.  He slips up again, I guess we're just gonna have to kill him."

She snickered favorably.  "That's your solution to everything."

"Works, doesn't it?  And I can't think of why you would complain unless your name is suddenly synonymous with kettle."

"Oh, lighten up.  You're just pissy because Lindsey grew a pair."

"No.  That I'd respect."  Angelus bounded to his feet the next instant, eyes blazing.  "What makes me pissy, sweetheart, is the fact that we're sitting back and letting them call the shots.  I can't remember when being evil became so goddamn technical."

"He threatened to call the Senior Partners, didn't he?"

"Subhuman lawyers.  Sounds a bit redundant to me."

Darla grinned, unable to keep the strands of inherent cynicism from touching her voice.  "No, lover.  Just means that there's something else out there that you'd fail to kill."

He rolled his eyes.  "And we're on this again."

"I don't see why it's necessary to keep her.  I never have, but I thought it better to entertain you.  After all, you always were rather inventive with torture.  But God, Angelus, she's boring, and she's used up the last of her batteries.  She's served all the purpose she possibly could."  She glowered at him.  "Better to kill her and have it over with.  At least it'll keep us from dying of boredom for another half hour."

The vampire shook his head.  "You don't get it.  You never get it.  You think it was bad for you, having that squirming, nasty little what's-her-name locked inside you.  Keeping you from being who you really are?  You don't know the half of it, honey.  You were never in love with one of them."

The blonde's eyes narrowed and she planted her hands on her hips, demonstratively unimpressed.  "I don't see what this has to do with not killing her now."

"I'm not finished with her, yet."

"Honey, you get any more finished, and there's not gonna be anything left."

There was a snicker.  "Don't tell me you feel sorry for her."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Torture the bitch, see what I care.  But she's growing on my nerves."

"By hanging there?"

"By distracting you."  Darla shook her head in disgust.  "Same time different network.  It doesn't matter whose skin you're wearing, does it?  Little mousy Buffy still gets to you.  Still manages to crawl through your insides and manipulate your better senses, assuming you have any left."

Angelus glared at her.  "What I do to her is between me and…well, me.  I'm owed that fucking much after being subjected to such reeking humanity.  All that do-gooder work, and I gotta take it out on someone.  Besides, sweetheart, it's fun.  And it's my business."

"You kill her, and you can stop worrying about Spike."

"I'm not worried about Spike.  You think I don't see what he's doing?"

"I think that your head has been up your ass too long to see anything at all."  Darla cocked her head.  "Maybe the big bad Angelus has gone soft over the years."

"Soft?" he reiterated disbelievingly.  "Because I won't kill her?  She's begging for death.  With every little whimper, little moan, little scream that crosses her lips, she submits further and further into what she knows is inescapable.  To kill her now would be humane."

"So, what, you're just gonna let her live forever?"

His brows perked.  "It's not like she's going anywhere anytime soon."

"Well, no, she's not.  At least not at the rate you're going.  Who knows, Angelus?  Maybe the Slayer will even outlive you."

The moans from the neighboring room were becoming louder and more difficult to ignore, despite any degree of experience the vampires had with such regard.  Darla paused heavily before the granted break into another series of criticisms with a dramatic roll of her eyes.  "This entire deal has gone to hell," she decided.  "And not when it was supposed to.  Wasn't the entire reason we allowed Spike to join our fun was the assumption that he would keep your lunatic whore preoccupied?"

"Mmm…" Angelus murmured.  "If one was looking for evidence, they'd search no further.  Of course, I never searched.  I just killed them.  That boy has done nothing but rub me the wrong way since we let him back in."  

Darla's eyes narrowed.  "He's still in love with her."

"With Buffy?  Well, yeah, Princess.  Welcome to the conversation.  He's never stopped being in love with her, which would be really funny if it didn't piss me off."  The dark one shook his head, emanating waves of dissatisfaction.  "You'd think after a hundred plus years, he'd've learned something.  Namely that it takes more than a few parlor tricks to make me look the other way."

"Of course, Sweetpea," she replied, curling into his side.  "It takes the entire parlor."

"It amazes me that he's survived this long.  Just goes to show what blind luck will do for you."

"Just kill him," Darla snickered.  "Hell, we'd be doing the world a favor.  And as you know, favors are not my strong suit."

"No.  You're a greedy little consumer."  Angelus cocked his head thoughtfully.  "And no.  I'm not going to kill Spike.  Not yet, anyway.  He's no danger to us.  There's no way he can get her out.  Right now, he's serving a cause.  An annoying cause, but it is rather funny to watch."

"What is it with you and not killing all of a sudden?"

"Darla," he berated softly.  "How could you forget after so many years?  I'm wounded.  Really.  It stings."  He placed a hand over his nonbeating heart as if to testify to the claim, but earned little more than an arched brow in turn.  "It's not the kill.  It's never the kill.  The kill is just the reward for the maze you take to get there.  Keeping them alive inspires hope.  And you know how funny hope can be."

Finally, he managed to get her to smile.  A truly malevolent smile that reeked of the purest intent—no regard of cynicism or incredulous undertones.  That was the smile of a believer, and for many, it was the last thing they saw.  "Oh yes," she chided.  "Tragically so."

That could have been it, and likely would have been had Drusilla's bellowing not extended the confines of her room.  The next minute, the raven haired vampire burst into the private chamber of her Daddy and reborn grandmum, eyes wide and hands clutching reverently at her head.  

"Oh look, sweetie," Darla drawled sardonically.  "We have a visitor."

"Now, now," he warned.  "Play nice."

A smirk crossed her face.  "Never."

Angelus entertained her with a mildly amused glance before returning his attention to his wailing childe.  "Dru, honey?" he asked very slowly.  "What is it?"

"Colors," she moaned pitifully.  "So much color."

Darla flopped onto the bed, rolling her eyes.  "Don't tell me she's been watching The Wizard of Oz again."

The remark went untended.  The younger vampire was shivering slightly, sinking to her knees to rock herself back and forth without reticence.  "He's swimming, Daddy.  Swimming.  But he won't take his lollipop.  He won't even give it a good lick for us.  All he thinks of is her."  Her hands went to her head.  "Ohhhh…he's angry.  My boy.  Naughty.  So deliciously wicked.  Vile.  Shhh.  Don't tell or he won't get any crumpets.  It's a secret, you see.  A dark, dark secret."

In his centuries of experience, Drusilla was perhaps the only being in creation that had ever merited more than a second of patience from Angelus.  It wasn't always so, of course.  Often he became too irritated with her ambiguity and gave up, but more over he was fascinated.  Always fascinated.  The prospect of second sight had always served to pique his interest, and having a constant reminder of his own monstrosity in his midst most assuredly promoted the instance of fortitude where she was concerned.  "It's Spike," he said, though there was never any doubt.  "What's happened?  What do you see?"

"He's coming," she replied.  "He and that filthy beast.  He's coming for her."  Her eyes fixed on the blonde that reclined luxuriously on the bed.  "The other comes for grandmum.  Wants to rip her heart out, he does."

That earned an arched brow.  "Someone's coming for me?" Darla inquired.

"Dirty little demon hunter.  Smells of daffodils.  Oh, he is not happy with you."

"Demon hunter?" There was a considerate pause before a long smile drew sadistically across her lips.  "Could it be?  Oh, this is delightful!"  Whatever it was, it was enough to prompt her to her feet.  She ignored the blank looks she was receiving, continuing merrily in her enthusiasm.  When she reached for her lover's arm with a devious wink, however, any lapse of hesitation vacated him.  There was something so raw about Darla's countenance when she fixed herself in these moods that was just…delicious.  "Angelus," she said.  "There's a friend I'd like you to meet.  May I have the pleasure of introducing you two when he arrives?"

A cool brow arched, despite his curiosity.  "A friend?"

She shrugged.  "Friends, bitter enemies.  Is there a difference?"

"Who is it?"

"Zachary Wright.  Little trifling man who's been hunting me since before you saw fit to kill me for your precious Slayer."  She grinned.  "Do you remember the maid in Italy?  The woman with her little whelp of a child?  She thought she was going to be persecuted for having a baby out of wedlock."

A slow, frighteningly malevolent smile crossed his lips.  "Ah, yes," he drawled sensually.  "I nailed her to a wall and hung the bastard child by her entrails, if memory serves.  The little girl was a treat.  A little feisty, but a good fight always makes them tastier."

"Mmmm…it was perfect," Darla cooed.  "Anyway, I did the same thing to dear Zack's wife."

"Did you, now?"

"Oh.  Very much so.  He angered me."

"A crime to be sure.  How so?"

"He refused the dark gift."  Darla shrugged, her eyes gleaming.  "He would've been perfect, too.  He had such raw potential.  But he wouldn't leave that female of his.  That…human.  So I had her taken care of, hoping he'd come around.  He didn't."

Angelus tsked and shook his head.  "Ain't it always the way?  Lemme guess…he pulled some foolhardy stunt and declared his undying vengeance."

"Well, I wasn't actually there for the declaring part, but I know he chased me as far as California.  He and his little brat daughter. He might've even been in Sunnydale when you…stuck it to me."  A seductive grin crossed her face.  "I tell you, he was a nasty bastard.  Vengeance changes people.  He was brutal.  Killing demons as he went along.  I was never there, of course, but oh, I heard.  He would've made such a delightful addition to the family."  Her eyes narrowed as she appraised her favorite childe considerately.  "Of course, you could never stand the competition."

He grinned at her shamelessly.  "Only where you're concerned, baby."

"He's coming for you now," Drusilla told her, rising to her feet slowly.  "Coming for you alongside my William.  They're angry little wasps.  Oh!"  She held up a hand, was still a long minute, then fell into a desolate pout.  "Humph.  Bad dog."

"What is it?" Angelus demanded.

"There's someone coming," she replied.  "Someone who is not my dearest.  Someone who seeks to disrupt our happy home.  Mmmm…what a great big hammer he has.  He's going to break the Slayer free.  Oh, Daddy, don't let him break the Slayer free!  Don't let him—"

"Someone's coming to free her?"  The thought was ridiculous; the power was something he alone controlled.  No one had access to her bindings besides him.  Unless…

"Lindsey."

Darla blinked, confused.  "What about Lindsey?"

There was a distasteful snicker.  "Your boy's Christian conscience must be getting the better of him.  Only he has the resources, or the motivation, to look into alternative means to get Buffy out.  To help Spike get her out.  He's been acting way too…"

"Suspicious?"

"No.  Oh no.  He's too clever to act suspicious when there's reason to be so."  Angelus shook his heavily.  "Guess this means I'll have to kill him."

The blonde vampire shrugged.  "Guess so."

"But first, to some untended business.  As disastrously funny as Spike's unrequited love might be…" He scowled deeply.  "I'm going to make sure there's nothing for him to find."   

"You're gonna do it?  Kill her?"  

A chuckle sounded through his throat.  "You make it sound so casual.  'Kill' doesn't even begin to describe what I'm going to do to her.  I'm going to make her bleed so much that he feels it through distance.  I'm going to make sure he screams for her well before he finds whatever's left."

Darla frowned.  "What prompted this change of heart?  By all means, I don't want to discourage you, but it does seem rather…sudden."

"Arrogant presumption will do that to you.  The boy forgets who he's dealing with."  There was a dangerous flicker behind his eyes.  "He needs a reminder.  And I'm going to give it to him.  Loud and clear."

*~*~*

It was morning in Los Angeles.  

Early morning.

"Ugh," Cordelia groaned as she descended the stairs, rubbing her head as though to wan away an unladylike hangover.  "I didn't even know a 5AM existed.  How is this possible?"

"You're thinking about the 5AM at night," Wright explained, guiding her to a sofa to ease her comfort.  "It's a difficult transition, I know.  Had to make it myself before I started with the demon hunting gig."

She smiled sleepily with an unsuccessful attempt to muffle a yawn.  "Well, you gotta hand it to those visions," she commended.  "They sure are…timely.  When did Spike say he was coming by?"

"He didn't specify.  Only that it'd be morning and early.  Who knows?  For a vampire, that might be three o'clock in the afternoon."

A scowl befell her face.  "Oh, it better not be.  I didn't just not go back to bed for no reason."  She yawned again, collapsing wearily against the sofa.  "You think Nikki minded going with the guys to hunt out that Oeuf demon?  Is that how you say it?"

He smiled.  "No.  Oeuf is French for egg.  What you saw was definitely not an egg."

"You know French?"

"I know oeuf, only because of something my cousin told me once.  'Why do the French only have one egg for breakfast?'"  He didn't even bother to wait for her guess.  "'Because one is an oeuf.'"  There was a long pause; her eyes narrowed at him skeptically until he fidgeted his discomfort under her scrutiny.  "Anyway, what you saw was a Uvryri."

"How did I mix that up with oeuf?"

Wright shrugged, an adoring grin on his face that he could do nothing about.  "Because you're Cordelia," he answered simply, a small smile gracing his lips.  For all the blood that spoiled his hands—demon or not—he looked every bit of angelic that moment.  It stirred something within her that she did not want to consider, but knew was inevitable, any way she turned.  "You're special like that."

Special.  She was special to him.

Well, obviously.  They were, for all accounts, strangers, and yet they had shared so much.  And she wasn't merely considering bodily fluids, though after her ill fated one-nighter the year before, that was a big deal.  Cordelia had never given much thought to a serious relationship.  Laughably, the only one she had had and maintained for any lengthy duration was with Xander Harris.  She was Queen C; there was no doubt about that.  But she was drastically undereducated in relationships.  Serious relationships.  She hadn't had a boyfriend since high school, and while torrid, her time with Xander could hardly qualify as serious.

The feelings she was having for Zachary Wright, however, were serious.  Very serious.  And they had been there from the beginning.  From harmless admiration at his physique to equally harmless flirting.  Somehow it had become serious.  And here she was.  Here they were.  Feeling all these…feelings.  These feelings that went way beyond the physical.

And naturally, being an agent for the Powers That Be, said feelings were very off in their timing.  

A very still beat grew between them; their eyes found each other with the same sort of understanding.  Bad timing.  Healing scars.  Things that would never be right even if this turned out well.  He was still mourning his wife, but he cared for her.  She saw how deeply he cared for her, and it blew her away.  Even her parents hadn't looked at her with that much regard.  Wes and Gunn loved her, Angel too—when he wasn't evil—but there was something completely different in this.  In this…being.

He felt it, too.  They looked at each other and understood.

"Cordy," he murmured, barely aware he was speaking until his mouth was well on the way to finding hers.

The entry doors swung open and they pulled away simultaneously, eyes wide.

"Mornin' all," Spike greeted, strolling inward. "I come bearin' doughnuts."

Cordelia and Zack looked at each other for a second longer, and away on the same.  "Ohhh, what kind?" the brunette asked, leaning over the back of the couch.  

The vampire flashed a grin.  "What else, luv, but Krispy Kreme?  I might be evil, but I'd conquer the fires of Hell before darin' another brand after these li'l delights."  As if to demonstrate, he indulged in a hearty bite and rolled his eyes back dramatically.  "Mmm, mmm.  I tell you, 's an' orgy in my mouth."

Cordelia snickered and pulled a syrupy sample out for herself. 

Wright arched a brow.  "Can vamps taste?"

"Contrary to popular belief, damn straight.  Everythin' enhances when you become a vampire, mate, even your sense of taste."  He took another bite, eyes twinkling.  There was definitely something about his air this morning that made whatever the oncoming hours had in store seem superfluous in context.  He knew they were getting Buffy back.  He knew he was rescuing the woman he loved.  And on that note, he turned to the brunette in full anticipation of her question.  "Angel never eats because 'e's a wanker who believes that humanly food is off limits.  Believe me, back in the day, 'e'd sample a li'l bit of everythin'.  Only grew to be a such a bloody bad sport about it when he got himself all souled up."

The demon hunter snorted appreciatively, managing to wheedle one of the doughnuts from Cordelia's grasp.  He smiled at her.  She was like any woman with her sugar; deny she wants it, but hog it till the cows come home when at her disposal.  He was blatantly amazed that there were still chocolate-laced delights waiting for an owner to claim them.

His eyes drifted back to the vampire.  "You seem to be in a freakishly cheery mood this morning."

Spike bounced a little on his heels.  "What can I say, mate?  'm wired an' ready to go."

Cordelia's gaze narrowed suspiciously.  "How much coffee have you had?"

"A pot when I woke up, a pot after I showered, an' I'm pretty sure I downed another between gettin' you ungrateful sods breakfast an' managin' to get here without burstin' into flames."

"Thanks," they singsonged automatically.

The brunette was shaking her head.  "I don't suppose it'd do any good to tell you that that much coffee isn't—"

"Good for me?"  Spike quirked a brow of interest.  "Luv, I live predominately on a liquid diet.  'F I was gonna start remarkin' on all the things that would be unhealthy for an average man, I'd look to the smokin' first off."

"Ah, but it is much easier to separate a man from his caffeine than from his nicotine."

Wright looked at her as though she were insane.  "Wanna bet?"

She wisely decided to ignore him.  It was the most civil thing to do.  "So," she said instead to Spike, slapping his hand as he tried to snatch the last chocolate doughnut before she could stake her claim.  "What's the game plan?"

He scowled at her but continued anyway, supporting his weight against the back of a chair and crossing his arms.  "I called Lindsey back last night," he said.  "After you two lovebirds scampered off.  Everythin' is set.  All we gotta do is show up."  He turned strategically to Wright, as the bulk of this had nothing directly to do with the Seer.  It was professional consideration on both their parts. "'E'll meet us before we get into the dangerous rot.  Then 's jus' a matter of how quick you can pull all your fancy James Bond moves.  Lindsey activates the backup, I get Buffy down, an' we skeddadle."

A long beat settled through the lobby.

"I don't mean to put a damper on anything," Cordelia said slowly.  "But…the simple plans always have a catch.  A dangerous catch."

"I know."  There was no want of deception in his tone; he knew exactly what he was doing, what he was risking.  But he was determined.  He was brutally determined.  "This is our best bet…her best bet.  We've waited too long for anythin' else.  An' I'm not gonna let another day go by without doin'…somethin' other than what 've been doin'."  His face crumpled pitifully; he did not weep, and for whatever reason, that shook her more than tears would have.  As though he was beyond the pain of regular suffering.  Lord knows he had suffered enough for the both of them.  "I have to get her out, luv.  I jus'…I have to."

Cordelia pursed her lips sympathetically, covering his sugarcoated hand with her own.  The false warmth there was moving in a sense she had never thought possible.  For all the good in him, Angel had never been warm.  He had never been anything but what he was.

"It's all right," she murmured.  "By tonight, she'll be snuggling with you.  And by tomorrow, Zack and I'll make you pay for making fun of us when we were…well, for being us."

One part of an us.  She liked that.

Wright smiled at her though his eyes remained on the vampire.  The man had suffered such drastic change over a short amount of time, but she didn't believe it bothered him.  Not where it counted.  "Listen to her, man," he encouraged.  "She's a smart cookie, and a Seer to top all.  We'll get her out."

Such acceptance.  Such complacency.  It was no wonder that it couldn't last.

"No, you won't."

The intrusion of the voice was so sudden that everyone jumped, immediately on awares.  It didn't take long to deduce that they were still alone in the lobby—rather, the demon hunter was instinctively drawn to the overlook from the second floor, where Rosie stood with her small hands grasping the rails.  She was as white as a sheet and more frightened than he had seen her since infancy. The sight of her brought everyone to a perfected, nearly horrified standstill.  

"Sweetie," her father said cautiously.  "Rosalie, what is it?"

But she wasn't looking at him; her small, eerily knowledgeable eyes were centered on Spike.  What she had to say was for him alone.

"They know."  A whisper across eternity.  Distantly, there was a shatter and a gasp—as though the world was cracking with such a simple revelation.  Something foretold from the beginning.

The child looked at him, heavy and bothered, and he knew she spoke the truth.  There was no doubt, no second-guessing.  There were no lies; only knowledge.

"She is going to die."

**To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Two: ****Lasciatemi Moire****…**


	33. Lasciatemi Moiré

**A/N: **All right, folks. It's official. I've caught up with myself. Work and class have cut into my writing time, which was why I had resigned to have the first ten chapters prewritten before I started posting. Anyway, it's not the end of the world. The next chapter is definitely on its way, though it might take a little longer than usual. I will do my best to be speedy. 

Also, I have been neglectful in expressing my complete gratitude to my best friend and beta, Kimmie (TheRealMcCoy) who has been very patient with me and—as always—much too generous in her support. (Also, if you're a West Wing fan, check out her stuff. She has a kickass Josh/Donna fic going on with promises of a slight BtVS crossover. It's bloody addictive, I tell you.). 

Lastly, my italics still seem to be ineffective. I know it's nothing big, but it aggravates me. Thus, I again opted to submit all the little internal stuff in bold text. Not everything; just where I thought it was needed. This last bit is just me ranting at ff.net for not cooperating and has no relevance whatsoever. So, in the words of George Carlin, "I have no ending for this, so I take a small bow." 

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**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**Lasciatemi Moire**

**Monday. 5:37 AM**

She hung like death and silent night. 

But she was not dead. Not yet.

Strange. She felt certainty in the air. Knowledge that outlasted no other. Today was the day. The day everything changed. The day she died. The day she lived. Whatever was to happen to her would happen today. It was a dreary state of consciousness. Awaking to know that whatever had transpired the past few days, weeks, however long she had been here would be solidified before she knew rest again.

Buffy would have questioned her understanding if she did not trust it so implicitly. It was there and she knew it was real. She knew everything that had happened thus far was real, and she had no reason to doubt what she already knew. 

Spike was coming for her today.

A small smile tainted her lips. Poignant and grieved, but there. Spike was coming for her today.

Spike.

So strange. Not too much time had passed. Not really. If she tried really hard, she could see herself within her mind's eye taking notes in her philosophy class. Exchanging pleasantries with Professor Spisak, whom she held in the highest regard. Though she knew not how late or early it was, she imagined herself getting up for her ten o'clock after wrestling with the temptation to ditch and sleep some more. Willow would not be pleased if she started slacking. After all, her newfound enthusiasm for education had lent a hand in bringing them closer than ever before. They argued over the French Revolution and debated how the weight of stress affected her occipital lobe. 

That night she would patrol. And Spike would be there.

Spike.

When had things changed so drastically? She remembered a time not too long ago when his threats to kill her were as numerous as hers to dust him, should he ever get the chip out. They had fought. They had strained. They had bled. They had attempted to do each other in over and over. They had never been friends; reluctant allies, perhaps, but never friends.

And now…now they were so much more than friends.

The first few days had been plentiful in dreams of him. It had startled her, but she did not deny it. His face was soothing. The promise of his coming for her as authentic as any promise she had ever wished to believe. And when the day arrived that his visits were no longer hallucinations, she had never known such joy. He was really there. Really there to help her. But he never said why.

He never had to. She felt it. She felt it with every fiber of her being. Every touch he willed himself not to give her. Every kiss that he stole from her willing lips. The mingled taste of his tears ran against her tongue. She had only seen him so bereft once before, and even then, the vision in her hindsight could not compare to the grief he bade her now. By some cosmically unfunny twist of fate, he had fallen in love with her. It was nothing that she promoted with smugness or indecency, not did she believe it out of arrogant hopefulness. She merely knew. With every touch, with his outlasting gentility, with the way he wept for her, she knew.

Her feelings for him were muddled and uncertain, but she knew that she had long ago given up hating him. Even before this ordeal. Before anything. He had been by her side in the graveyard, giving her reassurance that she so desperately needed but refused all the same. He had been there from the beginning—from the moment her mother learned the truth about her. It had been Spike at her side. Spike all along.

He was the one who was here. The one who had come for her. The one who was risking everything for a woman whose destruction he had once sought. And he loved her. He had never confirmed it, but denial likewise halted on his lips. 

After this, what would happen? Did he really believe that she would revert to form and start beating him up and refusing his humanity? The thought that supposition had logical backing made her hate herself. How could she ever have summoned such an allegation when he had given her more than anyone ever had? When he asked for nothing for himself in return? Beyond the love she read in his eyes, there had also been understanding. Self-doubt. He didn't believe that it was his touch that she craved. He didn't believe he was anything to her besides convenient relaxation. He was a ticket to freedom that she would ride every way from Sunday just to drain him of his good graces and leave him for nothing when all was said and done.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The depth of her feelings for him was blatantly terrifying. She had never experienced anything so powerful. So viable. Even with the blinded love that guided her through her affair with Angel, she hadn't known anything with such potency. She had never trusted anyone so unreservedly. And yes, she was not lost on the irony. The one man she had vowed to never trust now held more of her good regard than any other in her acquaintance.

Buffy did not know if that was love. For the first time in her life, she questioned the possibility of ever having been in love. The notion was ridiculous; despite the pain she had suffered, she remembered well the wealth of feeling she had held for Angel. She remembered how real it had been. How it had clouded every inkling of judgment. How she had braved giving him up in the end. But she had hardly known him before he earned her love. A mere sixteen years to her credit. A child.

How could a child fathom such emotion? How could a child identify it?

Buffy didn't like it. She hated the thought of admitting the great love of her life into the classification of schoolgirl crush. It negated everything she believed about herself. However, time had taught her infinitely that love did not work without trust. She had never trusted Angel. Never. Not where it counted. It hurt. It hurt to think that something she had given herself so thoroughly to might not have been the real thing. That she could have been so deluded into thinking that she was experienced enough to understand love. She always had the weight of being the Slayer behind her, believing that gave her more maturity than others. And it had, to a degree.

But not where it mattered. Never where it mattered.

What she felt now—this fathomless trust, respect, warmth, candor…this everything—was that love? It was different. It was so different. She knew him. She knew Spike. She knew him in ways she had never known Angel. For his faults, for his goodness, for his anger and insufferable impatience to his kindness and his resilience. He had cried for her when she could not cry for herself. 

She had not known Angel when her heart decided that it loved him. She knew Spike.

Buffy exerted a deep breath. It didn't hurt as it had just a few short hours ago. It didn't hurt because she had accepted his blood. She had taken his essence into herself. There were powers aside her own at work. The healing agent he claimed he possessed was working wonders. While the larger abrasions ached still, the minor ones were practically nonexistent. She felt stronger than she had in days. 

It was more than that. Whether or not he knew it would happen, ingesting what he had given her had allotted some connection, some tap into his feelings. And the wealth there was overwhelming. What he felt and how potently he felt it. 

She didn't know what she had done to deserve such love, especially from him. In the years of their association, she had been nothing but extremely cruel to him. To his body, his feelings, every hint of his regard. There wasn't a jest that cowered at the prospect of being released. There wasn't an accusation that hesitated to be hurled. She had done nothing to deserve any of what he gave willingly. She had never been anything but purposefully resentful of him. And now, right now, she hated herself for it.

Was it because she loved him? Did she feel the ache of what she had done because of how he gave her gentility so unthinkingly of himself, or was it something else? Something more?

Nothing more than empty wishes. Buffy wanted what she was feeling to be love. She wanted it so much. But the hesitation buried within kept her in suspense. If it was love, would there be hesitation? Was she forcing herself into a bond that was as forged as hers had been with Angel? Or did she vacillate in acknowledging her feelings in the mindset of being cautious for both their sakes? 

She wanted him to love her. The thought of anything else right now was…

Buffy's eyes went wide with realization. It hit her with a powerful onslaught. Bold. Unexpected. And she knew. There. There it was.

**Yes.**

Did she…

**Yes.**

She did.

The next few seconds were compact with an exciting thrill. Something that both warmed her and scared whatever there was left to scare rightly out of its wits. How things had changed. How she had changed. Spike was coming for her. He would get her out. And when he did, they could begin. They could begin as they should have. 

He would thaw her where she was cold. Strange. Leaving such a task to a vampire. 

Yet if anyone could do it, it was he.

A small smile beset her face. Spike. She loved Spike. She, Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer, was in love with William the Bloody.

He was right. Life was irony's bitch.

"You look happy." Angelus's voice stabbed through her delirium with the same impact of a bucket of ice. Not water, just ice. The cold hard of reality. Her eyes fought open against the still nothing in her chamber. The vampire was lounged comfortably at the entry, arms crossed as he regarded her. There was a dangerous glimmer to his physique. Something that he always carried but now wore with pride. She hated that. Hated how he knew just how scary he was. How he could intimidate so effortlessly. 

There was something different today.

"Now, from where I'm standing," he continued, pushing himself up with an arched brow, "I wouldn't think there's much to be happy about. I mean, look at you. Stripped of your dignity, your value, hanging there from the ceiling until I decide to come and pay you some special attention. How 'bout it, Buff? That a happy fate? Or perhaps I've been going too easy on you. You see, traditionally, people in your position have very little to smile about." 

"Well," the Slayer retorted, a bit more snip in her for what it was worth. It took him by surprise, and she was glad. If she kept taking him by surprise, it had every possibility of prolonging her sentence. Giving Spike that much more time to get to her. "You know what they say. 'Always look on the bright side of life.'"

"I'm surprised you can look at anything at all. Perhaps I was too hasty in deciding not to gouge out your eyes." His turned his back to her, examining the plethora of goodies that adorned the rack on the wall. "I could always rectify that now. Whaddya say?"

"You're not here to torture me."

There was understanding. She knew that. Knew. His countenance was different today. With intent. He had no purpose of touching her and walking away. Oh no. The conviction rolling off his shoulders could not be denied. 

Her eyes widened. He knew.

Oh God. He knew.

Her gaze met his with dangerous presumption when he turned to face her again. More strength than she was owed. As though he had sensed the difference in her. Recognized the comprehension, as it were. The knowledge that consigned her to her fate. They remained locked for a long beat before his eyes drifted to her mouth. Spike's blood had dried and crusted around her lips, and while she had not noticed it, he most certainly had. 

"He thinks he's a fucking hero, doesn't he?"

Buffy debated playing dumb but knew instinctively that such would not do anything to help. If anything, it had every possibility of angering him further. As if any of it mattered anymore. "He is a hero," she spat. "He's more than you ever were."

Angelus's eyes darkened considerably. The same grueling sight that had seen the end to more innocents than she wished to consider. Very deliberately, he advanced, marking up her personal space with empty appraisal, his eyes mapping her body to his own sadistic pleasure. "And yet, princess," he said very, very softly. "He's not here."

A sudden sting. Buffy instinctively bit her lip to keep from whimpering as her head whiplashed violently, having nothing to fall back upon. There was more blood on her mouth; her own intermingling with what Spike had left her. The sensation drew a resolute chill through her body and she called upon its resilience to hold her through. 

"He's not here," the vampire repeated deliberately. "But I am."

"Go to hell," she spat.

"Been there, done that." Something jabbed into her side; sending her forward with an impact of shock that was only maintained by the strength of her manacles. "Honestly, with all the time you have to…well…hang there and think, you can't come up with innovative ideas? Buffy, I'm appalled."

Cold air stung the open wound to degrees that almost surpassed the infliction itself. The Slayer was choking for air; keeled forward in a lonesome fashion that did not allow her any room for movement. The strength she had ingested only hours before had seemingly abandoned her on command. All that was left was Angelus.

The feel of her blood trickling down her barren body was nothing she was not accustomed to, but it made her shudder all the same.

"Coward," she hissed through tears, biting her lip harshly to distract herself from the pain engulfing her side. "Fucking coward. You know what they'll do to you if you actually go through with it. You know."

Angelus's eyes perked with interest. "Coward? Moi?" A hand jutted out with lighting-quick rapidity, inviting itself to an intrusion of the most intimate kind. The Slayer's eyes widened and she strengthened her teeth's hold on her lip, forbidding herself from giving him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. Despite however much it hurt. "I don't play by the rules, Buff." Her name was punctuated with a sharp jab; a whimper threatened to escape her clamped mouth. "And Wolfram and Hart…can't touch me. You think me afraid of them? Of Lindsey? Of your precious Spike? Hardly, my dear. But I do so love leading them on."

"And…yet…" she growled through her teeth. Tears were flowing down her cheeks, instinctual rather than emotional. She was not sobbing; they simply couldn't be helped. "You…you're the…the one who's…been…led…in circles."

The vampire's hand tightened around her, breaking further and inviting a warm fresh flow of blood. His nostrils flared appreciatively. "Big words," he appraised. "What did he do?"

Buffy knew immediately what he was talking about; she remained silent.

"Don't play games with me, sweetheart. You're hardly in the…" Another agonizing twist. Her body attempted to buck but there was nothing to be done. "…position to try and gain the advantage. Spike made you stronger. How? Did he fuck you, Buff? Can't imagine why not. After all, you're hanging there, waiting and helpless. And he's no different from the rest of us."

She looked at him, eyes shining with tears. "He's—"

"Ah. Right." Angelus's gaze fell to her crimson-stained mouth, confirming without a word that he had known this all along. It was impossible for him not to, the scent of his grandchilde's essence floating in the room in an intimate intermingle with his lady fair. "He gave you his blood, didn't he? Bold move. Bold and supremely stupid."

A shadow befell her face. Strong, despite the river flowing from her eyes. Despite the quiver in her form. Despite everything that had ever made her who she was—really was. Everything that had been robbed of her. "It was…" she said slowly, "fucking…delicious."

He released her with a noise of disgust, action laced with force that elicited strangely unintentional pain. Buffy knew better than to sigh her relief when he moved away. When the injuries inflicted allotted a temporary reprieve. She knew. The length of the floor quivered under his hard, angry paces. Odd. She had never thought of Angelus as truly frightening. Sadistic, evil to be sure, but she had never feared him. Not really. Even when she should. Even when he gave her all the reason in the world.

Now seemed to be as good an example as any.

"You think he's coming to save you?" he spat. "Your knight in tarnished white armor? You think I'd allow that?"

A cough where words should exist. Buffy hated herself for the lapse, but she could no more prevent it than stop the sun from rising. Everything was eventual in the grand scheme of things. "I think…" she said slowly, "…that…you…are not nearly…as strong…as you'd like…me to believe."

"Brave words from She Who Hangs A Lot."

"I speak as I find." Strength coursed through her; a nearly palpable sensation. Spike's blood. Her blood. Intermingling blood giving her a bit of her own back. He had spoken the truth, and he damn well knew what he was talking about. "If you were so strong…you'd give me a sporting…chance."

Angelus's arms crossed with severe scrutiny. "I know my limits, Buff. I'm just having fun finding yours."

"And-fucking-yet."

He stepped forward dangerously, all want of threat vanishing to the more powerful whim of action. And that was it. She understood. No more games. No more sparring. Just this. This raw acceptance. He had come here with purpose. He had come here to kill her. He had come here to wound Spike in his presumption and silence her hope without a breath of air to its credit. Silence her newfound love. Silence everything that the grace of goodwill had bestowed upon her in these last few days. 

Days that stretched to an eternity.

A long smile drew across his lips when he read her comprehension, his features melting into the demonic face that spurned him. Angel's fangs had failed to faze her during their courtship and they failed again now. If he meant to kill her, she would not cower. She would not beg. Every minute since awakening, she had anticipated him tiring of the same old torment. Now he meant to put an end to it. He meant to put an end to all things.

And still, Buffy's mind called out to Spike. He wouldn't know. Ever. He would never know, much less believe, that she loved him. That she had found solace with that reckoning during her last minutes. Her sister, her mothers, her friends…they knew her regard. All of them. But Spike didn't. 

Her deepest regret.

"Is that what you want, then?" Angelus asked. "Your freedom? That I give you without hindrance." His fangs neared dangerously, marking the bite she had allowed him out of love a mere two years prior to save his life. Her body tingled with the idiocy of action. And she knew then, in those last seconds, that whatever feeling she and Angel had once shared was as far from true love as anything else to mark the earth. Sacrifice was one thing. Betrayal was a whole new ballpark.

He had been Angelus once before, and still she remained blind to his monstrosity.

She had forgiven. She had rescued him. She had placed him above herself.

Punishment, then. Punishment for her lapse. A Slayer who knew the love of two vampires.

"But as all things…" Suddenly her arms were free, falling with blessed, tender relief to her sides as all the aches and pains that had accumulated over the weeks soared to life once more in throbbing retribution for what she was forfeiting. Her basic instincts screamed at her to fight him. To hit him. Strike him. Kick him across the room. Use that resourcefulness that Spike had given her to escape. 

She didn't. She couldn't. Her muscles were too sore for action. Too long held in suspension. Too long untended and unused. Too long neglected by god-knows-how-many-lashings and worse. Buffy blinked dazedly as Angelus buried his head in the crook of her neck—and it hit her. Unquestioning. Undoubting. 

Knowing was one thing. Understanding was something entirely different.

She was going to die.

"…freedom has a price. You want your release, Buffy, and I grant that. I just hope you're satisfied with the way things went. I know I am." 

And that was it. A pain like no other touched her skin, embedding through layers of tenderized flesh that had once been loved by the same face. Dying screams climbed into her throat, supported with weeks' silence and suddenly unveiled for the world to hear. It touched every sense. Every nerve. Every inkling of her that could be touched. That rawness. That heat. That blessed vat of nothing.

A blaze of color faded into the void. Feeling drained from her. Completion. She heard someone enter, but did not possess the clarity to identify the speaker. Only that it was female, and she was alerting Angelus that an untamed vampire was on the grounds, and that it was time to leave.

**Spike.**

Too late. Too late. He was too late to save her. And she lacked the strength to hold on.

**Forgive me.**

Buffy tumbled down an endless spiral far before she actually fell. And by the time she met the cold of the floor for the first instance since her coming, she did not feel it. Could not. And she remained as that. An object in the room, as lifeless as any other. To be found and mourned, but not saved.

Toxic blackness never to awake. Not saved.

Too late.

**To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Three: Hello…**


	34. Hello

**A/N: **Random side note.  I played with some vampire lore a bit and bent the Whedonverse…just a little, I promise.  Actually, there might not have been any bending.  I can't remember if what I think I bent was ever addressed on either of the shows…but enough with the rambling.  Just in case, I'm going to say I used some vampire lore that I haven't used before and it may or may not be popularly followed by ME.  Either way, it's a relatively small section of vamp lore and I only bring it up to evade possible questions as to its usage.  (Now that I've made a big deal about this, the lore I'm referring to will likely go unnoticed. This is why I shouldn't write author's notes at three in the morning).  

On a less random and much more productive note, I've picked up another beta who helped me find all the silly mistakes I make and tend to not notice.  Much thanks to Megan for her assistance in this chapter.  

Finally, it was asked what **Lasciatemi Moiré **translated to.  It means let me die or leave me to die…something along those lines.  I believe it might be mixed languages, which is rather interesting in itself.  (The title was suggested to me by a friend).

****

****

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**Chapter Thirty-Three**

**Hello**

**Monday. 5:28 AM**

There was a time that Lindsey McDonald could remember when he was the one laughing at Lilah Morgan for her rigid punctuality to match her ludicrously early mornings and equally amusing late departures.  He knew it existed; happenings and events were burnt into every shadow of his recollection.  There but in deep hiding.  

Funny.  With all the competing they had done, it took the account both wanted the most to get the childish bickering to finally know end.  So much had occurred the past few days that he didn't remember the last time he saw her.  The last time she visited his office for the mutual degrading exchange that left neither party at any sort of advantage.  She stabbed him in the back and he did the same.  A never ending cycle of imagined goodness.

And to think, there had been a day where he wanted all of this.

Lindsey suspected that if he cared, the absence of Lilah's frequent visits would have made him nervous.  As it was, he had not given her more than a few seconds' thought since betraying the Order to Angel Investigations.

That was until he looked up and saw her standing in his office.

Then glanced down with much of the same and continued flipping through paperwork.

"So, that's it, then?" she demanded.  "No 'good morning'?  No 'nice to see you'?  Really, after all we've been through together, that hurts."

"I thought it better not to lie."

"Then you're in the wrong business.  Not only do we work for evil, we're lawyers."

"Is there something you want, Lilah?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"It's a statement with a question mark tagged on the end.  Answer however you like."

A shadow of a smile crossed her face as she stepped forward appraisingly, narrowed eyes giving him a once over he didn't particularly like, but still refused to object.  "They know," she informed him.  "The Senior Partners.  They know what you've been up to."

Lindsey finally glanced up.  His eyes were an endless pit of apathy.  "Aw, shucks.  And after I went to so much trouble to conceal my efforts.  Whups.  Shame on me."

"You sound pompously secure for a man who has latently signed his own death warrant."

He offered an apathetic shrug.  "Well, as you said, we're lawyers."

The woman's mouth formed a line of solemnity, her head cocking with apt consideration.  "Was it worth it, Lindsey?  Forfeiting everything for the sake of something you can't possibly prevent?  I hope so.  I'd hate to think you'd live to regret the minute you betrayed yourself, despite how fucking ironic it is."

"There are many things I regret."  He dropped his pen haphazardly and leaned back, folding his arms across his belly.  "This will never be one of them."  

"You sure?"

"Positive."  His eyes glimmered mischievously.  "Oh, come now, Lilah.  Don't tell me you're disappointed.  You look like your dog died, and I know it's not for me.  After all, weren't you the one that killed the mongrel in the first place?"

She shrugged.  "The Senior Partners wanted it dead.  It was pregnant."

"Yes, I remember.  Odd how the Partners only favor demon spawn that will benefit them."

"It's not odd, dumbass.  It's survival of the fittest."

"No one stopped to consider the dog's feelings."  He didn't know where that had come from; he wasn't trying to be cute but he didn't believe it, either.  And it sounded odd against the air.  A statement void but filled with emotion.  A contradiction in itself.  "Besides, much as I recall, the critter would've been harmless."

Lilah smiled unpleasantly.  "All the better to kill it now before it got used to disappointment."  She crossed her arms and walked a pace across his office.  "I don't think you've considered the consequences of your actions, Lindsey.  I really don't.  And really, don't feel obligated to try to correct anything, even though watching now would prove ultimately amusing.  The Order, while not productive, would have been eliminated if the Partners thought it necessary.  Your taking matters into your own hands is going to be considered hostile liability."

His eyes narrowed and his chair moved just a little, following her as she walked the length of what was offered.  "Say that again," he suggested, "then ask me if I give a damn."

There was a snort of appreciation.  "You doing this because of her?" she asked.

"Do you care?"

"Not particularly."

Lindsey glanced down.  "I'm doing this because what's happening to her, what he's done to her, what we did to her is wrong," he said.  "I would tell you to not pretend to worry, but I know that's not necessary.  Once Spike and his demon hunter arrive, it'll be over.  And you won't see me again."

Lilah's eyes sparkled.  "Pity."  She turned then and made for a haughty exit, walking with dignity and power as always.  At the door, however, she paused once more, pivoting to gaze at him over her shoulder.  "There is just one more thing."

"Oh?"

"Those tapes you were so interested in…well, I had to take a peek, myself."

Lindsey went very, very still.  "And?"

"Something very interesting happened, oh, ten minutes ago.  Seems Drusilla's let the cat out of the bag."  A nasty smirk was situated proudly on her lips.  "Angelus was…well, the term 'madder than hell' comes to mind.  He's going to kill her.  Well, not to be hasty, he's going to torture the shit out of her, then kill her.  About time, too, if you ask me."  She turned to leave again and paused once more.  "Some of the guys from real-estate and I are going to make some popcorn and watch the show.  If you hurry, you can join us." 

The last seemed as though she was speaking in slow motion and he was too daft to follow.  One minute sitting there, listening to her like a rational person—and then raw impulse overwhelmed him, and he had bounded for the door.  Nothing beyond what she had said, simply the knowledge that Buffy was in trouble.  That was all that drove him.  

It didn't get him very far.  The next thing he knew, Lindsey was on the floor with Lilah hovering over him, stun gun in her hand.

"I thought you might try something stupid."

But he wasn't awake to hear her.

Nor was he awake to watch her reach for her cell, punch in a few random digits, and wait.

"Lilah Morgan here.  Lindsey McDonald is going to require some very minor medical attention as soon as possible.  You will find him on the floor in his office.  Be cautioned, his injuries might leave him temporarily delusional, so do not allow him to leave until he has clearance from myself or the Department Head."  She nodded perceptibly, fighting the temptation to literally kick him when he was down.  Despite their mutual hostility, there was a form of respect that could not go ignored.  "One more thing, do not be alarmed if the vampire monitors detect something unusual.  I had Spike's authorization stripped last night—we want to know the minute he enters the building."  A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth.  "No.  I want him to reach her.  Just make sure it's done before he does.  We don't want him interrupting anything."

*~*~*

**5:41 AM**

The first beads of daybreak touched the city sometime between departure and arrival.  Spike felt it as sure as anything.  While avoiding direct contact with the morning sunlight was hardly a challenge, despite the current disparity of his thought process, it occurred to him in some dark region that he was very fortunate.  Not many vampires could say they knew their way intimately around a town to a point of undeviating avoidance.  Sparks of inherent trepidation snaked across his back, tickled into his senses, and whispered his legs to pump harder, even if he did not need the encouragement.

"You all right?" Wright asked, even if he knew it was unneeded.

Stupid, stupid question.

The peroxide vampire didn't answer.  He hadn't said a word, much less composed a thought into logical context since leaving the Hyperion.  Every time he tried to speak, the image of Rosie, white as a sheet, interrupted his hindsight.  That awful moment when she stood perched over the railing.  Distraught.  Cold.  And certain.

She had been so fucking certain.

The loom of Wolfram and Hart waited ahead.  Just ahead.  Nothing else.

The demon hunter again.  Scraping at his side with eagerness that betrayed a want of feeling.  Spike's appreciation for the man had never been greater, but he could not allow himself to stop and consider that now.  "We have a plan?"

Inside now.  The quiet lobby of a building that was never quiet.  Stillness.  

That was it.  All the solid evidence he needed to confirm what Rosie had said was true, even if he had known it from the beginning.  Wolfram and Hart was silent.  And yet, he felt the announcement of his presence screaming unheard volumes through the ethereal ripples that connected every molecular fiber and held this house of sin sturdy and unwavering.  

He turned to Wright and tossed him a Colt .45 that he had located in Wesley's desk before leaving.  The weapon was so small, so alien.  Both men were accustomed to rhetoric and ancient tools to do in demons.

This device was meant to spill human blood.

Human. 

"Kill anythin' that moves," he said coldly.  "That's the soddin' plan.  Savvy?"

Zack stared at the gun as though it would bite him, color drained from his face.  "I…you want me to shoot people?"

"Not people.  These aren' people.  They're butchers.  Bloody butchers."

"That doesn't—"

"Well, Angel never had a problem with it before he went bad.  An' trust me, 'f you find a magical loophole in that warped sense of logic, these blokes must be anythin' but human."  Spike's eyes were afire, such that the promise of his own potency frightened even him.  He was dangerous to anyone in this state.  Driven with the primal need to get to her, no matter what it took.  No matter what it cost others.  He had never known such raw, unbridled need.  And he had never thought said need to coincide with the darkest manifestation of pure outrage he had ever known.  "They have Buffy.  Don' stop shootin' until I have her out."

"It's too soon," Wright protested.  His voice sounded ridiculously conspicuous, even if he was whispering.  "We can't know that Lindsey'll be ready.  That the Gregori guy you mentioned—"

"I get to Buffy.  That's all that matters."

"But—"

"That's.  All.  That.  Matters."  The peroxide vampire threw a menacing glance over his shoulder.  "Aim for the kneecaps 'f it makes you feel better.  But 'f you decide to get stake happy jus' 'cause my conscience seems to be malfunctionin', I swear, Zangy, I will snap your neck in two seconds an' you can't do a damn thing to stop me."

A long pause settled between them—not particularly dangerous, and without having to be told, Wright knew that was revolutionary.  Only weeks ago, had someone told him that a vampire would blatantly threaten him to his face and live, he would have scoffed and then gotten into an unseemly bar fight over the vouchers of his good name.  But Spike was made of different stuff than the rest of that.  He knew, watching him, that had time turned itself around and it was Amber's life on the line, no man could have prevented him from rescuing her.  From taking her from that horrible fate.

He would have killed to get her back.  He would have spilt human blood and not regretted it.  How could he begrudge a creature that was not supposed to feel empathy but did anyway?  How was he supposed to tell him that it was wrong to murder those who stood between him and his Slayer?  His Buffy.

These lawyers were only human by creed.  That was where the line ended.

"We'll get her out," the demon hunter agreed.  "Without having to snap any necks…except those that don't belong to me, naturally."

At that, the vampire's eyes softened perceptibly.  "I mean it, Zangy.  I like you an' the last thing I wanna do is…but I will, 'f it comes down to it.  'F 's you standin' between me an' her."

"I'm not going to stand between you.  Beside you, maybe, but not between."  He offered a small smile.  "That's what friends are for, right?"  

Spike stilled a second longer before the roughness in his façade melted for the acceptance waned through contact.  A heartfelt, however pained grin rose to his lips, and he tilted his head with gratitude.  "You have the worst timin' ever," he decided.  "Pickin' now for our sodding Full House moment?"

Wright shrugged.  "Better late than never.  Just wanted to let you know that I've got your back."

"Hopefully in a purely platonic way."

"Did you not see me with Cordy earlier?"

"I tried to block it out."

"Probably just threatened."

"Zangy, this is hardly the time."  

"Right.  In that we're agreed."  The demon hunter offered a resolute nod.  It was comforting to see sparks of similar determination flickering behind his eyes.  If he was going in there with anyone, might as well be with someone who shared his plight.  "Whaddya say we go get your Slayer so you can prove me wrong?"

Spike flashed a grateful grin.  "With pleasure."

Their eyes met with latent understanding.  And that was it.

The first steps into alien territory went surprisingly well.  While the firm was—for all intents and purposes—seemingly shut down, there was similarly a lack of human interference.  It wasn't difficult to decipher that there was something very wrong with this picture; it would be more than foolish to assume that a full track to the bowels of this hell would be without marks of trepidation.  Seven levels down.  Reaching her circle and fighting their way out again.  No other viable option.  

 "It's so quiet," Wright muttered.

Their steps were not.  Spike could not be deterred for any reason.  With a crossbow astride his shoulder and a twin firearm curled in his fist, he only had one purpose.  The darkness ahead failed to intimidate as did the knowledge of their precariousness.  Whatever was planning to leap out of the shadows at him had to infinitely do better than that.

Then he paused, very deliberately.  Just like that, the tenor had changed.  The threat was withdrawn.  And they were truly alone.

Something was different.

"This isn't right."

Zack appraised him with a look.  "Thanks for the observation, Captain Obvious."

The vampire shook his head.  "This is…"

And then he felt it.  Through every aching tendon in his body.  For every inch of him that lived without life.  It touched his unbeating heart with relentless presentation, offering a bended whim more than he could bear on first glance.  Loss.  Such horrible loss.  The pain of muted agony and then nothing at all.  The connection he had lived on for days was gone. 

Spike's eyes went wide, and a single word whispered through his lips.

"No."

No.  It wasn't possible.  They weren't too late.  They couldn't be too late.

The warmth was gone.  That blessed glow of light on his broken entity.  Somewhere harbored deep—somewhere that he hadn't known existed.  The light euphoric plane that housed his bliss whenever they were together.  Whenever he could caress her skin and convince himself of her tangibility.  It was fading.  It was leaving him.

Then it was gone altogether.

Wright grasped his shoulder worriedly.  "Spike?"

He didn't answer.  Couldn't.  He was barely aware he was there at all.

Buffy.

"Oh God, no."

Though he had always thought the offices of Wolfram and Hart to be unnecessarily large, compiled righteously with the stereotypical endless hallways and spacious rooms that were more barren than filled, the observation had never been more rigid.  He knew he was racing.  He knew his legs were pumping as hard and fast as they could.  And yet, with every step that carried him closer to the corridors that were now embedded in his conscious, his flesh molded to granite.  

In those last few minutes—the same that stretched immeasurably to hours without influence—there were very few realities that harbored his understanding.  He knew that Wright was behind him, running against the strain of time alike.  Screaming at him, demanding needlessly what was wrong.  Spike blocked him out.  He couldn't think—couldn't feel but for her.  The primal stirring that found connection with her was screaming its agony.  He wouldn't listen; couldn't.  It simply couldn't be so.

Not too late.  He would not let them be too late.

Angelus's scent poisoned the air with repugnance so strong he felt he might choke.  Despite their previous aversion, Spike had never found anything physically repulsive about him.  Not really.  Now the essence of his grandsire was enough to blind him.  Coated.  Everywhere.  Tainting the purity that should have been her air.  Her ambiance.  The platinum vampire searched vainly, seeking, needing…

It was gone.  

Gone, but…

And then he realized the fallacy in his own understanding.  Angelus's scent was not alone.  Its company took part in blood.  Her blood.

Buffy's blood.

The scene was so still when he first looked and saw her.  Lying on the floor, dead as night.  Curled in a discarded pile next to the chains that had been her prison.  There was nothing then but that realization.  That founded knowledge.  

A terrible sound filled the air and bounced off the sound of his weapons hitting the floor. A piercing, guttural wail that pained his ears, striking inerasable marks into his heart.  He could not think.  Could not breathe—a non-necessity that he fought for.  Could not stop himself from racing to her.  At her side, he nearly slipped and fell once more, bringing her body into his arms.  And breaking.

Breaking.

The room might as well have been unoccupied.  He gave no thought to anyone.  Not to Wright, who was watching gravely from the doorway.  Not to the cameras that had captured their numerous indiscretions.  Their stolen moments in time.  He held his Slayer to his chest, sobbing relentlessly into her hair, screaming madly at the world that had taken her from him, and cursing himself for being too late.  Cursed himself for killing her.

He had killed her.  

And so it was.  Spike on the floor, Buffy lifeless in his arms, rocking back and forth as unintelligible sobs and broken promises sputtered unknowingly from his lips. She was warm.  She was still warm. Still warm.  They had only failed her by minutes. He peppered kisses along her faces and felt the taste of her dried tears as they clashed with those that made haven down his own.  His hands skimmed her skin, clutching at her, begging her to return.  To come back to him.  To not be dead.

But it was too late.  She was gone.

And he was shattered beyond reckoning.

From the doorway, Wright watched with solemnity that did not know a name.  Watched a picture he knew more intimately than any man should.  Watched as his grief became someone else's.  

Experience mingled with despair.  He had never known that the picture could be more heartbreaking than the feel.  And in that moment, Spike's pain was his own.

It was frightening how quickly he came to resolution.  How quickly morals he had grounded himself on for years were cast aside.  But deeper within himself, there was no other viability.  Once he had stood aside and watched someone too pure for the planes of earth as she was ripped away from tangibility.  Not again.  Not twice.

Never again.

Slowly, carefully, he approached.  The man on the floor was still rocking her gently, murmuring prayers into her hair.  Pleas.  Whispers.  Promises.  He could not see for the river flowing from his eyes, but sight was not necessary.

Not when everything else had been ripped from him.   

"'m sorry.  Oh god oh god oh god I'm so sorry." Spike was sobbing, lips skimming over flesh that was freshly damp with his tears.  "'m so sorry, baby.  I wasn't fast enough.  I wasn'…" His voice broke again, trembling as he clutched her closer, another hoarse, voluminous cry clawing at his throat.  The sound of pain incarnate—never had anything been birthed so raw.  "God, don't leave me.  You can't leave me.  I never got to tell you.  I can't…not without.  My fault.  'S all my fault.  Buffy, baby, please.  Please don' leave me.  My fault."

Wright pursed his lips, struggling to keep reign over his own emotions.  The sight was so poignant, so beautiful, that he felt himself on the verge of tears.  "Spike—"

The vampire shook his head, unwilling to allow alien interruption to break into his sorrow.  Grief had indefinitely deafened him to the outside world.  His body was trembling, his head submerged in golden locks of bloodied hair.  His hands finally settled the exploration of her body, curled around her shoulders, caressing emptily for everything she could not feel.  "Forgive me," he pleaded hoarsely.  "God, Buffy, forgive me."

There it was.  A decision.  A dangerous decision.

If Wright had ever doubted the validity of Spike's feelings, it was all washed aside.  And he could not allow this.  He couldn't allow someone who was not a demon to suffer as he had.  Not if there was a choice.  Not if there was a way to make things right.

But he had to be certain.

"Would you have loved her forever?"

That broke through the haze surrounding them for no particularity.  Spike's reddened face glanced upward, shades of grievous offense flashing through his eyes.  "How can you…she's everythin' to me.  Everythin'…oh god."  His head dipped once more, entangling in her essence.  Whatever was left of her to be claimed.  Whatever he could grasp.  "My love.  I never got…she never knew.  God…she was alone.  I let her die alone." His body wracked with another incursion of sobs.  "I never got to tell her."

The demon hunter stepped forward cautiously.  "I just need to be sure.  I'm not going to do this if you're just going to abandon her.  If it's not…understand that if you do, there will be no mercy.  If I condemn her to…and…I'll make sure you pay for it.  Through my children, if I must.  With her it's forever.  You understand?"

The vampire was looking at him through dazed eyes, only partially hearing him.  Nothing that crossed his mouth made sense.  He was holding his dead love; there could be no rationality beyond that.  Nevertheless, he could not forfeit his honor, and some vaguely coherent part of his psyche must have recognized the threat presented.  "Forever," he whispered gutturally.  "There is no forever without her."

Wright nodded.  "I thought so."  The gun dropped from his hand, clammy with his nervous sweat.  In its place was one of the many knife blades he refused to travel without—the same he had used time and time again to bring justice to demons that deserved no other fate.  "Now then…hold still."

Spike glanced upward, but by then, it was too late.  His friend had moved forward with rapidity he could not have anticipated, he could not have evaded, given his current grave lethargy.  By the time he realized that the blade was intended for him, it was too late to move.  A red swipe cut clear across his throat, and he released a gurgled cough of blood.  There was an immediate flounce of enraged betrayal, a hand going instinctually to his throat only to be beaten away with resistance and realization.

The wound was deep, but it was not fatal.  Nor was it intended to be.

"Wha…"

Wright was unmoved.  His hand went to Buffy's head, encouraging her forward until her mouth touched the newly opened skin.  "Very still."  

Spike's eyes widened.  "No.  No!  Zangy, no.  You can't…" His protest died in his throat, blood loss getting to him even at its minimal level.  With his body shut down, fighting the other man off would be ineffectual, if not impossible.  

The demon hunter was too foregone in preparation to answer.  His hand gently stroked the Slayer's throat until he was satisfied that she was swallowing.  Through his years of practice, of hunting and research, he had absolutely no idea if this would work.  If it was too late for her or not.  But there were truths to be reckoned with; if there was a way to save her, this was it.  And he would not rest until he knew that he had done everything he could to prevent this from being her fate.

All for a woman he did not know.

For long seconds, there was nothing save their quiet breaths to counter the sound of her drinking.  The long lasting glass of a dead woman.  He had to continue to aid her to make certain that the blood was getting into her system—Spike's hands going from opposition to holding her against him.  But for everything, she remained lifeless.  Gone.

Dead.

A trembling sigh passed through the vampire's lips.  "Zangy…I—"

Then something happened.  Something that neither man, despite age or experience, could have possibly expected.

The lifeless hands that rested wearily at her sides surged with an unforeseen incursion of supplemented strength.  Spike was nearly forced back at the spontaneity of reflex, but his arms drew around her tighter.  His eyes widened with alarm, shooting to her own even as her countenance remained unchanged.  

She was still dead in every sense of the word.

But she was grasping him with an unwillingness to let go.  

And then it touched him.  Somewhere deep where the grief was at its turnpike, that outraged sorrow turned to the most mind-numbing pleasure his body had ever known.  It was—in a word—staggering.  Buffy's hands clamped his shoulders, mouth suddenly animated and caressing his throat in one of the oldest trades known to the natural order.  She was drinking the essence of him, feeding on everything that poured from his bleeding flesh, taking him into her in a way he had never thought possible.  Spike rumbled a contented sigh that seemed more out of reflex than feeling.  His insides were still screaming at the injustice of it all.  Of what had been robbed of him.  Of what had been ripped from her.  However, his fingers coiled around her bloodied flesh, bounding her to him.  Despite the wrongness of completion, he could not allow her to stop drinking.  

It was new.  It was vital.  And in those few agonized seconds, it was wonderful.

"Oh God…" he moaned.

Wright merely stood back and watched.  Watched the work of his ultimate betrayal proceed without hindrance.  Pools of unguided feeling mounted his insides, but he did not wish to consider his actions now.  Not now.  There would be time for regret when it was over.  A man that had once lived to destroy vampires.  A man who now made them of his own freewill.

It seemed hours passed before Buffy yanked herself away, falling back into his arms with the same unfettered lifelessness that she had possessed before.  As though the exchange had been fragmented by imagination rather than actuality.  Wright breathed slowly, steadily, watching her with dangerous conjecture in the mark of his weakened disgrace.  Bloodstains marked her mouth.  Fresh and alive.  Her body burned with newfound warmth.

And slowly, slowly, Spike returned to himself.  Gained control.  

And stopped when he realized the full of what had just transpired.  

"No."  He stared at her, curled in his arms, eyes still blurred with tears.  "God.  God.  No."

The demon hunter watched him precariously, his expression grave.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I had to."

"What have you done?"

"What I had to."

"No, Zack."  The raw, unbidden use of his given name lent them both pause.  Spike glanced upward with severity.  There wasn't an inch of him that failed to scream his distress.  The calamitous fall of presumption.  "What have you done?"

There was no answer to give.  Nothing that could justify meaning.  Not with the sun rising over Los Angeles or the world of darkness that lay at its wake.  

No answer.  Thus, they simply waited in silence as the city came to life around them.  Overpowered.  Overwhelmed.  One standing, two on the floor.  Answerless for all the harsh ugliness the world had to offer.  Bearing hard the mark of sacrament.  But nothing else.

Nothing else.

To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Four: _The Tower of Learning_… 

**A/N**: (cont) Forgive me, I should've noted this earlier.  Yes, while I have again killed Buffy, I do want to clarify that I have absolutely **no** intention of turning her evil.  Been there, done that…twice, as a matter of fact.  As so the _Sang _series ended, so did my affinity for making her Porphyria, or a variation thereof.  Not only would it be extremely redundant on my part, I just don't want to do it again.  As a result, in this universe, Slayers retain their souls.  (It was mentioned earlier in passing).  I took the easy way out as I am partial to Vamp!Buffy stories, but as for the evil thing…I've definitely had my share.


	35. The Tower of Learning

**A/N: ** A couple of things.  Firstly, the thanks again to my betas for doing a smashing (not to mention speedy) job in editing this for me.  I swear, I'd be lost without them.  I've also managed to pick up a few more nominations because my readers are the best people in the world and obviously think far more of me than they should.  Seriously, you all rock.  

At Spuffy Awards, The Interview was nominated for Best General Humor. Cupidity was nominated for Best BtVS Rewritten. Nemesis was nominated for Best BtVS Rewritten, Best General Saga, and Best Buffy Characterization. Harbingers of Beatrice was nominated for Outstanding Original Character (Zack Wright—yay!), Best General Saga, and Best Spike Characterization.  I also managed to pick up a Best Author nomination.  

At Watching You Awards, Harbingers of Beatrice picked up nominations for Best Long Fiction and Best Series/Saga.

Many, many heartfelt and awe-struck thanks to whoever nominated me for either site.  I am, as always, flabbergasted.  

Lastly, this may or may not be the last chapter before I leave on my trip.  I'm hoping I can get the next one out in time, but I know enough not to trust absolutes—especially with my own laziness involved.  I'll be leaving on Friday and will be gone for about week (Memphis and New Orleans—yay!), and while I intend to get much writing done, I know that I am inherently more prone to ignore the story until I get back.  Vacation and whatnot.   Heh.  

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**Chapter Thirty-Four**

**The Tower of Learning**

It was surprisingly simple—leaving Wolfram and Hart constituted nothing more than just that.  There was no opposition, no demeaning glances, nothing but airs of haughty normalcy.  A lifeless Slayer bound in a leather duster and held tightly in the vampire's arms.  Wright walked intently alongside his companion, but the reaction would not sway with difference.  There was no reason to hamper their leaving—the damage, after all, had already been accomplished.

They had discovered Lindsey McDonald's office vacant; nothing to the man's credit saved a few packed boxes and a date inscribed in his day-timer with G the LS.  Nothing else.

Too late, anyway, to attempt any venue.  Too late for anything.

A woman named Lilah Morgan met them in Lindsey's office and diplomatically offered to see them out without dispute.  They followed with more of the same.  No words.  No exchanges.  There was nothing to offer.

Spike had Buffy cradled to his chest, wrapped gracefully in the prize marking her kind.  It was a Slayer's coat, after all.  He had pulled it off a dead one in New York—poetic justice that he should arrange it on another after her passing.  Especially since the woman who wore it also owned his heart.

He did not want to think how she would hate him when she awoke.  Hate him for not being fast enough.  For not saving her.  For turning her into what she was meant to destroy.  For making her a creature of his own following.  She was not meant for this sort of existence; and he had condemned her.  It was not by choice, and yet he felt the burden of responsibility.  

If she hated him, truly hated him, after what they had shared, he did not know what he would do.

That was all in retrospect.  Too late now.  He had graced Lilah with a dark, accusing glare and turned his attention back to areas of more noteworthy consequence.  It concluded in following Wright when prodded, not to look back.

There was nothing to see should he turn and try.

They were ultimately led to the sewers that Angel had made habit of utilizing prior to his transformation.  Their journey was long paced and awkwardly silent—Spike occasionally nudging the Slayer's head with his cheek, inhaling the fullness of her scent.  Reassuring himself with her presence.  Cherishing these last minutes when he could pretend that she did not hate him.  That the stanch respect and trust that had shone behind her eyes when he last saw her would be what greeted him when she awoke.  When she returned to him.  Before she realized how he had betrayed her.

And yet stillness consumed her—and him in turn.  Stillness rendered them both hollowed shells of reason.  With each step, the path to the Hyperion seemed to lengthen in context.

It was a cold reckoning of several combinations.  The vampire had not spoken since leaving Buffy's torture chamber, and whatever needed to be said would remain indefinitely reserved.  Zack wasn't sure what even drove him anymore.  The few full glances that they shared were void of any or all emotion.  A pure nothingness to counter with everything that had occurred.

Whatever the circumstance, it couldn't last.  Silence alone could drive a man insane—in such conditions, the damage was potentially irreparable.  

Wright glanced to his friend mindfully.  "Spike?"

A few beats of waiting.  Then nothing.

"Spike?"

Nothing.

"Spike, for Chrissake, say something."

The vampire's eyes darkened and his jaw set with immeasurable hardness.  "There's nothin' to say, Zangy."

"I think there is."

"Yeh.  I'd wager so.  An' as we all know, you're burstin' with brilliant ideas."

"It was all…" Wright sighed and ran a hand through his ashburn locks.  "It was everything…all that we could do.  All that I could do."

"You've ruined her."  Spike stopped dead in his tracks, eyes blazing with levels of fiery contempt.  "You've…how can you not know what you've done?  You out of all the bloody people in the fucking world oughta know that.  You dedicated your life to this.  To…" He fell silent again, the incursion of objection too overwhelming to answer.  Instead, he opted for a low but equally dangerous, "You know what you've done."

"It…she…" Zack closed his eyes briefly and paused to gather his bearings.  "She will retain her soul.  Wes and Cordy assured me that if she was turned, she would retain her soul."

"Right.  Small compensation for losin' everythin' else."  He willed himself to another standstill, turning to face the other man completely for the first time since leaving.  "Wes an' Cordy assured  you?  Why would they have need to—"

"I wasn't planning this and you know it.  It came up in passing conversation.  I was worried about what would happen if Angelus turned her.  I didn't…" Another sigh painted the air.  "I didn't want to have to approach you with the possibility of having to kill her."

There was a moment's pause.  Spike's gaze hardened imperceptibly, and he turned to continue without forward offer.  "'F she doesn' hate me for the whole of eternity…"

"She won't."

"I din't save her."

"You didn't kill her, either."

"No.  I jus' handed her an existence that she's never gonna forgive me for.  That…she…" The vampire shuddered with a lingering beat of resented rage.  "I can't believe you did this."

"I had to."

"Funny.  A vampire hunter forced to make a vampire."

"It had nothing to do with that and you know it.  I did it because it meant something for…" Wright shook his head with a deep breath.  This line of understanding deserved a far more open approach—meager excuses were meaningless.  He had to share reason.  "When I lost Amber…it nearly killed me.  It probably should have, given how naïve I was at the time.  How secure and blissfully ignorant.  If I had had the opportunity, I would've done anything to save her.  Anything."

There was no missing the subtext of that revelation.  Spike made a noncommittal sound, eyes drifting implicitly to Buffy once more.  "Sirin' her wouldn't have saved her."

"I know."

"It wouldn't have even been her when she—"

"I know."

"Vamps have the memories an' the—"

"I know.  But she would...she was Amber.  And I would've done anything…" Zack sighed evocatively.  "It's different now, of course.  I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"Anyone except the woman I love.  'S that what this is, Zangy?  Gettin' back at me for bein' a vamp at long bloody last?"

He frowned, clearly insulted.  "Don't be ridiculous."

"'m not entirely convinced that—"

"You know why I did it, asshole.  She's...I couldn't stand to see someone go through what I went through, especially when there was a way to stop it.  She's a Slayer.  She—"

"She doesn' deserve this.  She doesn' deserve an eternity of pain to spare my feelings."

"You have the power to fix it now if you feel that I was that out of line."

Spike stopped shortly and glared at him.  Every twitch he betrayed was wrought with disdain.  "You son of a bitch."

"Well what?  If I did such an injustice to her, kill her before she rises.  It'd be the merciful thing to do, wouldn't it?"

There was a long, dangerous pause.  Then, slowly with marked resignation, he expelled a deep breath and allowed the tension in his shoulders to roll off in waves.  When he spoke, the defeat in his tone was nearly unbearable.  "You know I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"That's right."

Wright arched a brow and waited.

"I won't," Spike reiterated.  His voice dripped with self-hatred and failure, but he did not waver an inkling from the truth he knew inherent.  It was fruitless to deny something that was written so plainly within his eyes.  "I won't lose her again.  I'm not…I'm too bloody selfish to lose her twice."

"I know."

His head shot up, gaze gleaming with tears laced with umbrage and malice.  "Don' do that.  Don' for one second pretend you're better than me when you've jus' told me that—"

"I'm not, Spike.  We're even.  Completely."  Zack shook his head heavily and they continued walking.  Silence marked with undeclared respect.  "There've been a lot of things that I've done and I'm not proud of.  A lot.  The decision I made back there is not one of them.  I might doubt myself, I might hate myself, but I know…I know that it's better to try and save someone from what I went through than sit from the goddamn sidelines.  You're a vampire and I hate you for it. You know I hate you for it. But I think I hate you for being a man more than anything else."  He smiled when Spike glanced to him in surprise.  "It's easier when monsters behave like monsters.  When they prove to be men, that's when you question your integrity.  I'm not better than you, Spike.  I'm the same.  We're the same.  We're both men with monsters locked inside, and there's not a damn thing either one of us can do about it."

For a few seconds, it seemed the entirety of the Los Angeles underworld to be kept in grim solitude, such that even the rats that frequented the sewers could not be placed.  It took only a beat or so in retrospect for Spike's eyes to soften.  For any leeway to be allowed from the staunch resolution he had so depended on.  It wasn't much, but it was enough.  It was enough for both of them.

A sigh coursed through the vampire and his guard slipped without reservation.  "You don' know what you've done to her."

"I know," Wright replied quietly.  "Just as I know it had to be done.  Angelus murdered her because he knew that you were coming for her.  I'm not about to give him that advantage."

"This is more than Peaches."  

"I know."

"Do you?"

"It's about her.  It's also about you.  I know suffering well enough to know when it's on the verge of destroying someone.  It would've destroyed you.  It would've made you into one of them."  Zack smiled grimly and turned to continue.  "There might be a lot of wrong in what I did, Spike, but neither one of us is gonna fix it.  You would've grieved, then you would've lost it.  You would've…you would've become dangerous."

A scoff seized the vampire's throat and he arched a brow in offense.  "'m already dangerous, Zangy.  You forget who you're dealin' with."

"No, I don't.  I can't afford to.  But I also know that you're a good man, despite being a bad vampire."

"'m not—"

There was a dry chuckle of challenge.  "Right.  You're not.  Come on.  Falling in love with the Slayer?  Going against your Order?  Becoming the honorary leader of Angel Investigations—the crime fighting squadron?  Yeah.  You're not.  Tell that to me again, but this time try to sound like you believe it."     

Spike went still for a minute.  "'m not the honorary leader."

Zack gave him a look.

"'m not!"

"Right.  And everyone's just sitting on their tail ends waiting on word from you because it's so much fun, not to mention productive."

The vampire went rigid for a minute with implication but brushed it off with more of the same.  "They jus' knew how important it was to get Buffy out."

"Important to you."

"She's the Slayer, mate!  It doesn' get more important than that."

"There would've been others.  So is the lifeline of the Slayer."  Wright's hands came up in measure of defense when that observation earned a particularly nasty glare.  "I'm just saying.  I came into this not knowing shit about Slayers, but I've done my reading and Cordy's filled me in on all the gray areas.  Slayers aren't meant to grow old, Spike.  Buffy's death was inevitable any way you looked at it.  Trying to save her, while noble, would've ultimately proven…ineffective."

"Well, thanks to logic, you've taken care of that."

"What I did had nothing to do with her being the Slayer.  I had to get her back."

The vampire snorted.  "Right.  'Cause you know her so well."

"No.  But I know you…better than I'd like to.  Buffy is your link to humanity, Spike.  I'm not so stupid that I can't see that.  She's the reason you're here with me at all.  She's the reason you're not the monster you're supposed to be."  A sigh rolled off his shoulders.  "And aside my pettiness, I couldn't risk that you'd revert to form.  'Cause then I'd be forced to kill you."

"You might hafta yet."

"I know."

"'S a part of havin' a vamp as a chum, Zangy."

"I know."

"So you jus' thought you'd spare yourself an' instead condemn the woman I love to an existence that she's gonna bloody well hate me for…for havin' any part of?"  Spike sighed and shook his head.  "I'd rather 'ave her dead an' feelin' whatever she was feelin' 'bout me toward the end than alive an' hatin' me forever."

Zack nodded.  "How selfish of you."

"Bloody right."  The vampire grinned wryly at his friend's surprise that he would accept such a calm resignation.  "For the firs' few years, mate, I could live with it.  I could live with it as long as she's happy.  'F by the grace of God she overcomes her transformation an'…'f she can be happy, that's all that matters."

"Why do I sense a big ole nasty 'but' in that clause?"

"Because there is one.  Eventually, mate, her friends are gonna snuff it.  Then she's gonna be left alone."  Spike expelled a deep, mournful breath, and the sobriety in his countenance betraying everything that he didn't really need to say.  "An' when it comes down to that, I don' want her seekin' me out 'cause I'm all she's got left.  I don' want her…like that.  Whatever happiness she has for the whole of fifty years 's gonna be nothin' compared to the loneliness after that.  There'd be no one else for her.  No other vamps.  No Peaches.  No one.  I don' wanna be the last resort.  Not after what we've shared."  He shook his head.  "I don' want her to spend the whole of eternity hatin' me for bein' too bloody selfish to give her up.  I don' want her crawlin' to me for bein' the only one left.  I jus'…"

There was no reason to clarify.  Wright understood well enough.  

"But you still won't kill her."

"No.  I can't."  The vampire made a pitiful sound and shook his head.  "I can't kill her, mate, an' spare her that.  No matter what I…I lost her once today.  It nearly destroyed me.  Those few seconds nearly destroyed me.  I can't do it again."

There was a snort.  "What we have here is an ethical dilemma."

"For two blokes who don' really favor ethics, 's a pretty sizey one."

"I don't regret it, Spike.  I don't regret what I did.  It saved you both."  Wright smiled softly.  "Maybe you're wrong.  Maybe she'll see that."

A pause settled between them.  Heavy and coated with incredulity.  There was no want of belief.  No want of anything beyond solitude.  "…Maybe."

There could be no truth in supposition.  Both knew enough to see that.

But neither decided to raise challenge.  Not to what was already known.  Not when they were battling the enemy that sat atop an uphill front.  Not when they were out of ammunition.

Not when everything seemed over.

*~*~*

Arrival at the Hyperion went, for all intents and purposes, as was expected.  Cordelia nearly doubled over when she saw them standing in the doorway, shielding Rosie's eyes and demanding that she return to her coloring book.  As though the child was a stranger to such things.  As though she had never before seen a body before.  As though she hadn't predicted it with the morning's rise.

There was some comfort in selective ignorance.  No one thought to question her.

"Oh my God," she gasped, approaching tentatively.  "Spike…I'm so sorry."

The vampire smiled gratefully, too overwhelmed at the moment to explain any further what had happened.  To his credit, he tried.  Several times.  Tried to open his mouth and explain what would come about in the evening.  What to expect when the Slayer discovered her fate.  But he couldn't say it—he couldn't bring himself to for any reason.  Thus instead, he turned to Wright and explained calmly that the demon hunter would fill her in.  For the time being, he was going upstairs.

"Why?" she asked.

"To clean her," he explained.  "'m not gonna let her stay like this."

And that was all he said—there was nothing else to say.  He carried her to the master suite that Cordelia had set up for him the day of his arrival.  The same that had gone virtually unused.  It was comfortable, even posh, but his attention was far removed.  In the adjoining bathroom, he stripped Buffy of his duster, turned the shower on hot, and entered with her in his arms.  It was a quick excursion—holding her bare, dirty and abused body against his clad form as he washed the grime from her skin and massaged shampoo into her scalp.  Watching the spiral of blood and dirt dance down the drain.  Feeling the fresh wounds inflicted on her flesh.  Feeling where Angelus had hurt her the most.

Feeling the rage he thought impossible to influx any further instead expand and nearly break his chest.

He didn't linger in the shower; merely dampened her skin and shampooed her hair.  Got the worst of her clean before moving them to the tub.

It was a strange angle and he would be the first to admit it.  Time and experience had taught him many different ways to care for someone who was otherwise incapable of caring for themselves.  He couldn't fathom how often he had tended to Drusilla in a similar manner.  Bathing her.  Feeding her.  Making sure she had all the essentials for survival.  Even before Prague, his deranged ex-lover had never possessed the central knowledge on how to care for herself.  She relished the kill, no doubt, but she also entertained whims that were far too capricious for her own good.  And it had been that way for years—he had accepted the reality that he was her saving grace.  Without Angelus and Darla, she wouldn't have survived.  And after they were gone, there was no one but him to give a damn.

That had changed, of course.  Everything changed.

Spike found himself smiling at Buffy's frozen face, despite the invasion of self-aimed horror that such inevitably bore.  Yes, everything changed.  He had changed.  He had changed so much.

And now he was taking care of the Slayer in a way that he never would have wished upon her.  One of the things he loved about her was her ability to not only tend to herself, but also care for others in a manner that succeeded in both vexing him greatly and increasing his admiration for her in massive proportion.  He had never wanted to see her so weak.  So needy.  Drusilla had needed him, and that knowledge had provided sufficient substitution for his desire for her to love him as he loved her.  He wanted Buffy to love him completely—not depend on him.

Despite how he tried, he couldn't see beyond tomorrow.  Beyond the face of admiration turned into staunch hatred.  The thought alone was nearly enough persuasion to lead him to the sun.  One could not touch her, make her smile, share the wealth that was her joy and have it turn to ash with the whim of such a fatal mistake.

But try as he might, he could not bear the thought of taking it back.  Even his condemnation for Wright's actions had halted resolutely in his mouth.  

He had a feeling the night would be a plague of these thoughts.  Right now, he had to devote his time elsewhere.  Into making sure she woke up warm and loved.  That she found the world a better place than the one she had left.  That she knew, despite how things might have changed, that she was safe here.  With him.  And always would be.

Thus he bathed her.  Thoroughly.  He worshipfully eradicated every stain that befell her ivory skin.  He cleaned her cuts and mended her wounds even as he knew her own innate fortitude would serve just as well.  The marks of transformation were beginning to claim her.  Vampirism in cahoots with her Slayer power.  

He smiled poignantly at the notion.  The gods themselves do tremble. 

It was finished, then.  Everything he could have done to make her wake comfortable.  To make her reemergence—her rebirth, for lack of a better term, as wholly gentle as possible.  He dried her off with more of the same and adorned her in some of Cordelia's things that he found set across his bed.  At any other time, he would have found it odd that he hadn't heard her come in.  But not now.  Not with his thoughts so singular that nothing short of the apocalypse could hope to break his walls.

Spike gently laid Buffy in bed and pulled the comforters to provide falsified warmth.  Seeing her alabaster skin set against the white of the sheets was discomforting.  She was too pale.  She had always been paler than any other normal Californian due to her duties, but her color now was nearly nonexistent.  Kept too long from the sun and subject too often to torment and pain.  And now this.  Lifeless.  Dead.

He hated the notion.

How long he sat with her, he knew not.  Time had no qualm of passing without his consent.  He sat in disturbed silence, watching her for all her stillness, contemplating the hours ahead with such growing dread that he thought it possible for his heart to begin pounding.  With each passing second, the threat of her hatred threatened to shatter whatever was left in him to shatter.  The proverbial noose tightening around his neck.  The same being that didn't need air now depended on it; he felt whatever notion of decency moved within him threatening to leave with more of the same if he did not find some sort of consolation.

The only consolation that could satisfy was through her touch, and he knew she was unreachable.

He had come so close.  So fucking close.

But it wasn't about him.  It never had been.

Sometime past dark, the door creaked open and the scent of warm blood hit the air.  Spike found himself jarred out of whatever perpetual reverie he was destined to relive until she awoke and found himself more than grateful for the disturbance.  He turned to the door and was greeted by Cordelia's warm, sympathetic smile.  She extended the proffered mug and sat down at the corner of the bed, more than mindful not to disturb Buffy's seemingly endless slumber.

The vampire regarded her carefully before turning his attention to her gift.  It seemed forever had passed since he last fed, and he knew he likely would have forgotten to had she not made the gesture.  "Thanks," he said hoarsely, indulging a large gulp.

She shrugged.  "I thought you could use a friend."

There was a telling snort and he arched a brow.  "'S that what we are?"

"Oh, don't.  Don't even."

"'m not doin' anythin'."

"Yes, you are.  You're brooding."  When his eyes widened comically at the implication, she brought her hands up in ode of innocence.  "I'm just stating a fact, here.  And trust me, I'd know.  Hello, worked for a brooding vamp for two years.  I think I'm well enough skilled in this level of expertise to pinpoint the signs."

He sniggered appreciatively and took another drink.  "That was below the bloody belt, you know."

"Of course.  I'm Cordelia.  I only aim below the belt.  It's the only surefire way to get the point across."  There was a shadow of a smile before he melted away to nothingness again, his eyes traveling to the still woman that had been cared for to the extent of his abilities.  No matter how he exercised himself, there always seemed to be something lacking.  As though more could be done in preparation for her wake, even if he knew it otherwise.  

So in danger was he in immersing himself in his thoughts once more that he would have forgotten the other woman's presence had she not placed a warm hand on his knee and jarred him back to the present.  "You did everything you could," she told him softly.

Spike couldn't help it; he snickered.  "Yeh.  Sure did."

"I wasn't talking about that."

"Doesn' matter; I was."

"And again with the brooding.  I'm going to need to whack you upside the head every few seconds to keep this from becoming a dangerous habit, aren't I?"  She sighed when he didn't answer, detached and overdrawn.  "He did what he thought was right.  You know how he feels about this."

"Y'know, after today, 'm seriously beginnin' to have my doubts."

"Right.  And that's why you made his acquaintance at the wrong end of a crossbow."

"Luv, at my age, you're not lookin' to find many things that I haven't seen the wrong end of."  A sigh coursed through his agonized body, and he leaned forward in despair.  "She's never gonna forgive me for this."

Cordelia pursed her lips, rubbing his back softly.  "Sure she is."

A bitter chuckle rumbled through his lips.  "'S not that simple."

"Of course not.  But everything's forgivable, Spike.  Even for stuck-up Slayers."

"Watch it."

She arched a brow.  "You speak as though it's not the truth."

The vampire glanced upward, tormented eyes glimmering with beads of hidden amusement.  "'Aven't you ever heard of respectin' the dead?"

"Yeah.  Kinda figured that one's a pick and choose type of thing.  Selective respect.  Wouldn't want to be respecting the wrong sort of dead."

Spike smiled ruefully.  "Got that for bloody right."  His gaze once again fell upon the Slayer.  She remained as she had before.  "This is a terrible feelin'."

Cordelia nodded, her hand resuming the artless patterns of comfort that drew across his back.  "Being afraid?"  She smiled warmly when he glanced to her with astonishment, disliking that he was that simple to read.  "It's okay to be afraid from time to time, you know.  Even for a vampire."

"'ve never been afraid before."

"Yes you have.  You've been terrified since you first came here.  Terrified that she'd die."  When he stiffened in implication, a sigh of concession rumbled through her lips.  "It wasn't your fault, Spike.  You did everything you could.  Absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent everything you could.  I've never seen anyone care for anyone the way I saw you care for her these past few…however long you've been here."

An embittered chuckle rumbled through his body.  "Funny how you lose track of time when you're havin' fun, innit luv?"

"That's not how the saying goes, and you're purposefully steering me from my point."

"Din't know you had one of those."

She smirked.  "Thanks.  My point is, this is the first time that your job saving her has entailed you to do nothing but wait.  That's why you're feeling your fear now."

He shifted uncomfortably.  "Well, I don' like it."

"Well, Pouty McPoutsAlot, what are you gonna do about it?  Sit up here and brood?"  Cordelia followed his gaze to the bed, where Buffy lay still unchanged.  "She'll forgive you."

A choking sob that he didn't even realize he had been harboring spilled from his lips, desperate and unbidden.  Funny how emotion could creep up on him of its own entertainment.  He had never thought himself so fucking open.  "You can't know that.  You don' know…God, what have I done to her?  She's gonna hate me, Cordy.  An' I can't bloody well—"

"Anyone who's seen you at all since you got here knows damn well what you've been going through to get her back.  And if you're that transparent to us, then I can't begin to imagine just how much you've revealed during your private time with Buff."  She covered his hand with her own, encasing his cold with her warmth.  "She'll understand.  It wasn't your fault, Spike.  She'll have to see that."

He shook his head.  "She's gonna hate me."

"Then, frankly, she doesn't deserve you."  When his head whipped to her with nearly accusing rapidity, she offered nothing more than a sincere smile.  Nothing out of malice or cruel suggestion—it was the truth of feeling.  And at that moment, he knew for the first time what it meant to have friends.  Real friends.  People that would stand by him, through the good and bad decisions.  People that accepted him for what he was.

It was spectacular, and only served to terrify him more.  

Things were so much simpler when one lived alone.

"I'm gonna head back downstairs," the Seer announced, patting him twice in support before standing once more.  "You really oughta come with."

"No.  'm stayin' here."  Spike turned back to fully face the bed.  "'m not gonna leave her until…'m not gonna leave her."

"Man," she remarked teasingly.  "Talk about commitment."

"Cordelia…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I'll be back up in an hour or so…just to see if you need something."  

"Thanks, pet.  I appreciate it."

She knelt forward to kiss his forehead, again reveling in the look of shocked wonder her warm actions received.  "No prob.  Anything's better than sitting around while Wes is in research mode.  Something about the girl I saw in my vision earlier."

The vampire nodded noncommittally.  "Oh."  

"Yeah, it was a thing before…well, it was a thing."  She moved for the door.  "Remember, we're all downstairs if you need anything."

Spike grinned expressively without facing her.  "Kinda hard to forget."

There was nothing in reply, even though he sensed her linger for a few minutes thereafter.  It was easy to detect when she left, though his mind was far detached from present to make definitive note about it.  It was difficult to consider anything while Buffy slept.  

So he sat in silence.  Satisfied with that as his fate.  Watching her in death.

And waiting.

*~*~*

He ended up on the bed beside her; couldn't explain why fully.

Well, he could.  Sure he could.  The separation was enough to kill a weaker man—he was feeling it through every unholy strain in his body.  The connection their combined blood had forged.  Anything and everything.  Whatever there was in the world of metaphysics that pulled him to her.  Even a few feet at this stage was intolerable.

And if he were entirely selfish—a crime to which he had already confessed his guilt—he would acknowledge that he wanted the opportunity to hold her once while she slept.  Just once.  Once before the world he had created for them shattered.  Before his nightmares became reality.  Before he looked into her eyes and saw hatred bounce back at him.  

That would come tomorrow.  He was allowed this.  This peace.  This solace at her side.  This, if nothing else.

Spike rested then, his hand finding hers.  Entwining his fingers with hers, gracing the inside of her wrist with a kiss before moving his tender touch to her temple.  He berated himself when he felt his eyes well with tears once more.  God knows he had cried more these past two days to satisfy the rest of eternity for the both of them.

And then, there they were; the words he hadn't allowed himself to voice.  Not aloud.  Not to her.  He could hold them back no longer, even if she couldn't hear them.  Just once, they had to be said.  Just once without the fear of revulsion in return.  He needed it.  For himself.  For her.  To satisfy any end out there that remained untied.

"I love you."

There.  A weight lifted.  Despite what the morrow brought, it was out there.  His confession.  What had driven him this far.  What had prompted him into that self-made inferno.  What had served as his cause for everything.

It was more than enough.

With that, Spike's eyes fluttered shut.  His hand tightened around hers, depending on that connection.  And for the first time in days, sleep apprehended him.  He allowed himself this.  This rest.  This last before the tears the next day was bound to bring.

Rest at the side of the one he loved.  A dreamless sleep before the fall.

It didn't seem too much to ask.

**To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Five: _Morning Song_…**


	36. Morning Song

**A/N**: Okay.  I was wrong.  This is the last chapter before I leave.  Forgive the mistake; I really had not thought to get it done/betaed so quickly.  

Thanks to all for the warm vacation wishes.  As I said, I will try very hard to get some writing done.  I merely know my own productivity on trips seems to favor the 'not' column when it comes to WIPs that I leave behind.

I still haven't fixed my italics problem.  Sometimes they show, sometimes they don't.  Thus I have opted to highlight the really important stuff in bold once more.  This is again a side note of little consequence…I just need to rant my frustration.  

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**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**Morning Song**

"Well, well," Wright drawled as the doors to the Hyperion whisked open, allowing Lindsey McDonald entrance.  "Look what the cat dragged in."

The lawyer glared at him, rubbing his brow as if to banish himself of an oncoming headache.  "Could you possibly think of something a little more cliché, because that just wasn't cliché enough."

"I'm sure I could if I tried."

"Well, for my sake as well as yours, please don't."  He shook his head heavily, casting a heavy eye to Cordelia, who—of the two—earned the most compassion.  "What happened, do you know?"

The question prompted a snicker from the demon hunter.  "What?  And we're supposed to believe that you don't?"

"They didn't tell me anything, all right?  I couldn't even get clearance to leave the building until an hour ago.  By the time I got to my office, my things had been removed and, for all I know, disposed of."  Lindsey chuckled wryly, hand persistent at caressing his brow.  There was truth in what he said; his appearance wafted the illusion of a man that had been hit and rolled over with a semi-truck.  "I guess I owe Lilah a thank you.  In some perverse way, she saved my life."

Cordelia frowned, motioning him to the vacant plush cushion in the middle of the lobby.  "What do you mean?"

"No, no," the demon hunter interrupted, making a very stringent gesture with his hand.  "He's not staying,"

"Zack, he looks like hell."

"Thanks."

Her brows arched in sympathy.  "Well, you do."

"I don't care if he looked like the Pope.  He's not staying."

"Just out of curiosity," Lindsey volunteered, "do I know you?"

"We have a mutual acquaintance."

The lawyer's eyes widened incredulously.  "Great.  That shortens the list to people in this and approximately fifty surplus demon dimensions.  Way to help."

"I do my best."

"GUYS!"  Cordelia held up a hand, her patience notably on edge.  "It's not like fighting's going to change anything.  Quite frankly, I already feel a headache coming on, and if there can ever be a day when I don't have one, I'd really prefer it to be now.  'Cause you know.  Seer.  Headaches.  Kinda acts like an accessory to the action figure package."

As though acting in direct defiance to her decree, Gunn and Wesley strolled into the foyer from the Watcher's office.  

"What's Evil doing here?" the former demanded.

The Seer tossed an acerbic smile to the ceiling.  "Thanks PTB.  I appreciate it.  Oh, by the way, when I die from severe hemorrhaging, it's so going to be your fault."

"Now, now, Gunn," Wesley said lowly.  "We don't want to jump to any conclusions."

"Right," came the disbelieving retort.  "We end up with a sired Slayer on our hands and now a spokesman from Hell Incorporated shows up?  I don't really consider that jumping to conclusions.  More a very unhappy coincidence."  He crossed his arms and jutted his chin at McDonald, eyes dark and serious.  "You gonna talk, bro?"

"Sired Slayer?" Lindsey demanded worriedly, jumping to his feet as he glanced to Cordelia for confirmation.

Wright couldn't suppress the snicker that climbed into his throat.  "Yeah.  Like you didn't know."  

The snippy remark earned a sharp glance of warning from the Seer.  "Back off, Zack.  He's telling the truth."

"And what?  Your magic powers tell you so?"

Gunn's hands went up and his eyes grew wide.  "Hey man.  Chill.  If Cordy says it's cool, it's cool."

There was a moment's consideration—the demon hunter so swamped with contempt that his eyes refused to bow to even the slightest hint of leeway.  The attack was unprovoked and would remain as such, but one could not dismiss the radical strain of tension ringing through his form.  In such a state, he was prone to direct his anger at anyone.  Even the person in the room that mattered the most.  For what was said, he could not help himself.  "Oh.  Right.  Because Cordy's all wise, all knowing, all powerful."

At that, the woman in question reeled with a slap of instant offense.  Wright nearly felt it before she did, and his expression instantly softened.  "I didn't mean that," he said softly.  "That was out of line.  That was…I'm sorry."

She glanced down, avoiding his gaze.  "Sounded like you meant it."

"I didn't."

The lawyer raised his hand.  "I'd like to second Cordelia on this one."

Zack smiled at him unpleasantly.  "Well, I'd like to see you castrated.  I'll give you yours if you give me mine."

Lindsey blinked at him.  "Do I **_know_**you?"

"I don't care if you know me.  I **know** you.  And I know you're affiliated with the corporation that murdered my friend's girlfriend.  That's all I **need** to know.  So take your fucking business elsewhere.  We're out of rooms."

Gunn frowned at Wes.  "We are?"

The former Watcher shook his head.  "It's a metaphor.  Albeit, not a very good one, but a metaphor nonetheless."

"That's too bad," McDonald replied, gaze refusing to waver from the demon hunter.  "I was so hoping for a vacancy."

"Tally another notch for the Bad Metaphors Party," Cordelia muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Sorry.  We don't let ruthless killers stay with a smile and a nod."

Wesley's brows arched at that.  "Well, actually…"

"It's all right," Lindsey said, waving dismissively.  "I'm a lawyer; I'm accustomed to hypocrisy."

That was it.  The proverbial breaking point.  Wright stormed forward heatedly, flashes of anger coloring his face with such potency that rage could have formed a tangible companion.  Not one inch of him failed to ripple with ire.  "Fuck the rest of it," he growled, breaking without precedent and shoving the lawyer with the reserves—the energy he used only on demons.  The sort of strength that required years of training to accumulate.  The other man fell back with more surprise than anything else, making no attempt to retaliate, despite his nose for it.  As if he thought such manners of defense were outlawed to him for what he was and what crimes he had committed.  

The accusation came again.  Heated.  Raw.  Black.  Completely void of compassion, despite the cries of protest swimming around them.  "You **murdered** my **friend's** girlfriend."

Lindsey found himself on the floor, panting harshly.  The desolation that overwhelmed him was brief, all things considered, but enough revealed to merit his sincerity.  The marksmanship for genuine regret.  It was bad fortune that Wright did not see it.  "Actually," he said, fighting to his feet.  "I was incapacitated.  I knew too late, all right?  I was in my office waiting for Gregori, and the next thing I knew, I was in the medical wing.  They had me unnecessarily stabilized for eighteen hours as Lilah pulled every string she could to get me out of there in a taxi rather than a body bag.  There was nothing I could do, all right?  Not a damn thing."

"Nice," Gunn appraised with a whistle.  "What I wouldn't give to have friends in high places."

"Friends?" the lawyer sputtered indignantly.  "Hardly.  I don't know why she did it.  I really don't.  Call it professional courtesy, or don't.  Call it whatever the fuck you want."  He shrugged.  "I don't know.  What I **do** know is that I woke up without a job, a car, or an apartment.  Everything's been seized by Wolfram and Hart."  His spread his hands helplessly.  "I'm homeless."

Wesley frowned.  "They fired you?"

"I'm saying so.  And hey, I'm not complaining.  In retrospect, firing me was the tamest thing they could've done.  I'm surprised, quite frankly, to be standing."

"Why?"

Lindsey perked a brow.  "Why am I surprised to be standing?  Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

"No.  Why did they fire you?  There must have been a reason."

The answer to that inquiry seemed equally obvious, but there was something in the man's countenance that betrayed an understanding that he was most certainly not at the advantage here, and cooperation was his saving grace from being abandoned and completely vulnerable.   "Because I'm a liability."  He emitted a long, burdened breath.  "Because since Buffy was escorted into my office, I have done nothing but torment myself on both my responsibility in her being there and how to get her out.  And yes, while my actions were not fast enough, while…while everything I did or didn't do bit me in the ass…I **did** try."

"Yeah," Wright agreed sharply.  "You failed."

Lindsey's eyes narrowed.  "With all due respect, so did you.  And…do I know you?"

"He's a friend," Cordelia offered.  

"Yeah.  **That** I gathered."

"He's also somehow gotten the idea that this is his hotel," Gunn observed.  "Yo, man.  I like you.  I really do.  But you can't just waltz in here and start playing boss.  We all voted Wes in.  Deal."

"Well, Charlie," Zack retorted, ignoring the flare of annoyance that sparkled behind the man's eyes.  "I don't work for Angel Investigations, and even if I did, at this point, I wouldn't give a flying fuck."  

"We're all worried," Wesley offered softly.  "These past few hours have been easy for no one."

"You can say that again," Lindsey muttered.

"But bickering amongst ourselves isn't going to solve anything.  I don't really suspect anyone here to be without some share of the blame for what has occurred."  The Watcher turned his gaze heavenwards and heaved a troubled sigh.  "Until Buffy awakes, we do not know what to expect."

"Except that Spike'll stay with her," Gunn observed.  "It is **not** easy tryin' to get that boy to move."

Wright cleared his throat and cast his eyes downward.  "What…what do you think she'll…what do you think she'll do?"

"Besides whup his ass several times from Friday for turning her into a member of the pulseless society?  Beats me.  I don't even know this chick."  He turned his attention to Cordelia and Wesley, who were exchanging a series of thoughtful glances.  "You guys know her.  What do **you** think she'll do?"

"Don't ask me," the Seer said, throwing her hands in the air.  "With as much as I've changed since high school, I'm willing to bet it's double for her."

"I'm willing to bet it's not," the former Watcher countered.  "Slayers cannot afford to change, Cordelia.  No matter how long they live.  Waking in a world such as this where she has been transformed into the very creature she was chosen to kill…I do not envy Spike in his task to calm her.  There is a reason Slayers are not turned.  It's a dangerous business."

"So glad you're going over the 'dangerous' part now," Wright remarked dryly.  "Lord knows it wouldn't have been good to do anything rash."

"You did what you thought was right."

"I can't begin to tell you how much comfort that does not bring me."

"Guys," the Seer said neutrally, stepping into the line of fire.  "This is getting us nowhere.  Standing around and speculating's not high on the helpful list.  The best thing any of us can do right now is give Spike some peace.  I'm sure when Buffy wakes up, the last thing he's gonna want is a bunch of people around to watch—"

It was times like these that the acoustics in the Hyperion were noted for being superbly underestimated.  The first touch of Cockney brogue nearly shook the place to the ground, seemingly emanating from all corners, all walls.  It touched the air, soared to a life of its own, and reverberated with haunting stillness even after the tag died without ceremony.

**"CORDELIA!"******

A long, uncertain moment passed.  All eyes fell on her.

"You were saying?" Lindsey asked, arching a brow.

The Seer shrugged.  "I could be wrong, you know."

*~*~*

He awoke slowly, encased in sweetness.  Drifting down pathways perfumed with vanilla, sunshine, and Buffy Summers.  As though light could manifest itself into a tangible being and accompany him through the woods—an old friend visiting for the weekend.  It was a bizarre feeling.  Spike rarely dreamed; when he did, the visions produced were so realistic that he seldom knew they were conjured out of falsity until he awoke.  He had dreamt of holding the Slayer once, of tasting the sweetness from her lips and hearing her confession of wanting just above his own of love.  The same dream that had fueled him for countless miles.  

He knew not how long he had been here; it didn't matter.  Buffy was beside him.  She was beside him.  He felt her hand in his.  Felt the cool satin of her skin.  If he inhaled, he would be flooded with her fragrance.  It was more than one person could ever ask for; he was asking.  He was asking and he didn't imagine himself ever stopping out of worry of avarice.

Something was squeezing his hand.  Very, very gently.  Cautiously.  As though worried any additional strength would break him.

Spike's eyes fluttered open.  And he froze.

Buffy was looking at him.

Every nerve, every impulse wrought into his system drew to an enigmatic standstill.  It was unsettling; watching her remember. Watching realization cloud her eyes.  Watching the wondrous understanding flood her perspective.  

He didn't know how long she had been awake, and the notion bothered him.

There were so many things he wanted to do; impetuous senses flooded him without prerogative to action.  God, simply seeing her look at him was enough to knock the proverbial wind from his lungs.  It was astounding—the clarity behind those eyes that had been all too recently dead.  The want of knowledge.  The confusion marred only with comprehension.  God oh God, this had been a bad idea.  Being in the same bed with her while she took her first minutes as a vampire was unspeakably intimate; he felt as an intruder that wished to steal the log from the fire when everything else was already in his possession. 

It came slowly.  Recognition.  He remembered those first few minutes of waking all too well.  One of the few things that time and age had failed to whither to its own molding.  The fear.  The bewilderment.  The body's craving for blood—a hunger unidentifiable until the first sip was ingested.  The lack of warmth.  The lack of a heartbeat.  All the things that mere mortals took for granted every day.  Every idiosyncrasy that separated vampires from everyone else.

Buffy's eyes clarified as she looked at him.  Remembered him.  Remembered herself.  She shifted, and his body flowed with her as though under a whim uncontrollable by earthly forces.  Her hand constricted around his until she realized that she was likely hurting him; her touch became soft and torturous.  

**Oh God…**

Spike didn't realize his own eyes had drifted shut until they shot open when she whispered his name against his lips.  When he looked at her, she was close.  So close.  There was no revulsion in her gaze.  Nothing to betray herself for repaid debts.  Just simple acceptance.  Dazed acceptance.

He realized all too late that she wasn't with him.  Not entirely.

"Buffy?"

She blinked twice at the name before allowing a small smile to cross her lips, snuggling deeper into the pillows.  "Spike…" Her hand found his face and the effect of her touch was nearly enough to render him helpless for the rest of his days.  How long had he wanted this?  He rightly couldn't imagine a time not wanting it, though he knew it had to exist.  Had to.  She had not been around forever.  And now with everything he had ever craved in his possession, he had to give it back.  

Buffy didn't know that, of course.  She wasn't entirely to herself.  Her caresses continued softly, waving ripples over his skin.  It awed him when her eyes became watery.  As though the contact could stimulate her as it did him.  Such things were impossible.

But there were tears.  There were tears in her eyes.  Her gorgeous, vibrant, _alive _eyes.

"I'm dead," she said simply.  The understanding there was enough to knock him off the bed if he hadn't been so thoroughly grounded.  However, before he could intercede and explain, she plowed through without objection.  "Is this Heaven?"

Numbness swept his body.

"Heaven, sweetheart?"

"It's warm."  That was likely the comforters covering her body—warmth had no place amongst vampires.  It was always artificial.  Always borrowed.  Always not theirs.  "It's warm.  I don't hurt.  He's gone, isn't he?  Angelus is gone."

Spike nodded slowly, carefully.  "'E's still around, luv," he clarified.  "But far away from you.  'E won' touch you again.  I won' bloody well allow it."

"You're here."  She smiled sleepily and the image nearly broke him.  God, he must be such a disappointment.  Giving her everything **she** wanted only to rip it away within seconds.  "And I can finally touch you."

Her hand ran lovingly through his unkempt platinum locks.  Every move she made, every word she spoke, everything that embodied her as she was made his heart constrict to points that were nearly unbearable.  He trembled beneath her exploration, battling the incursion of emotion that threatened to spill forward in all his bumbling glory.  

She remained oblivious to his suffering.  Her hand ran the length down his stationary arm until finding his once more, linking them together in a way that seemed all too personal. "I've wanted to touch you forever," she murmured, nearing provocatively.  "But I couldn't.  Couldn't…no matter how I reached…I—"

Spike's vision blurred.  "Buffy—"

"You found me, though."  

"God, I—"

"I'm sorry.  I tried, Spike.  I tried so hard."  Her grip on him tightened needily.  "I knew you were coming for me.  I knew it.  God, I felt it.  I felt it and then he was there.  And he—"

The peroxide vampire nearly tore himself from her arms.  He couldn't stand that.  Couldn't stand the account of her death.  Having lived as he had for the past twenty-four hours, living it through her eyes would likely kill whatever was left of him.  Feeling her pain.  Her fear.  Her expectations and aspirations of him.  That blinding faith that had gotten her killed.  It was the epitome of selfishness and he hated himself for it.

Nevertheless, he remained as he was.  Curled against her.  Against his Slayer.  

She was going to hate him, and he couldn't stand the thought.

"Buffy…" he whimpered hoarsely.  "Oh God, I'm so sorry.  I'm so, so sorry.  Please…god, forgive me."  He buried his face in her hair and inhaled appreciatively, clutching her to him with sudden possessive restriction.  "Please oh god please…"

"Spike—"

He pulled away with more of the same and couldn't help himself.  If this was all he was going to get, he would take it without reservation.  His mouth found hers and drew her in—needy and desperate.  Kisses intermingled with tears.  He could taste the salt of his own sorrow flood with her sanctuary.  She denied him nothing; gave him whatever he wanted and more.  Pressed herself against him in a manner so intimate he had never, even in his wildest, considered possible.  

Spike abandoned her mouth to sample the sweetness of her tears. Her relief.  Her trust.  Her sacred trust that he had broken in the worst manner.  Taking everything he could before she thought to shove him away for what he had done to her.  "God," he cried again.  "'m so sorry, baby.  I…I din't mean it.  I swear I din't mean it.  I…god, please…"

"What—"

Then he couldn't stand the separation.  They were pressed together, but he needed to feel his arms around her.  To swallow her with his being without sullying her any further.  His body nearly trembled with respite when she reciprocated his possessiveness, curling her arms under his and nuzzling the hollow of his throat with such delicacy.  As though she thought he might break.

Spike pressed a trail of wet kisses up and down her alabaster neck, unable to cease the sobs that had commanded him.  "Forgive me," he pleaded softly.  "I din't mean it, luv.  My love.  Oh Buffy, forgive me."

It could have gone on forever—this knowledge of her.  Holding her to him without the willingness to forfeit what was not rightly his.  And he would have been satisfied.

When he felt her fangs sink into his throat, his body wanted to cry out its pleasure.  Logic, however, forced no boundary.

She was a newly risen vampire that needed to feed.  

And he had made her thus.

The verification of such knowledge was enough to drive him away.  Out of the bed, away from the allure of her kisses and the tempestuous fire behind her embrace.  The shades of pained confusion that overwhelmed her was the final piece—he needed nothing further.  She wasn't herself.  She hadn't been since waking.  She hadn't even realized that she had bitten him.

It was not a difficult decision to make.  He couldn't be in the room alone with her like this.  She was far too tempting.

So he called for the first person that came to mind.

**"CORDELIA!"******

 It took very little.  Panting, he stood at the side of the bed, refusing to look away from his girl.  He couldn't.

Her eyes were filling with tears again.  Not the good kind.

"Spike," she said softly. "Tell me what's going on. Am I dead?  Is…what is this?"

Words and confessions halted mercilessly in his throat.  It was fortune that Cordelia answered his call before he lost the last ounce of self.

"Hey," the Seer said in a manner that was both breathless and entirely too casual for anything he could begin to relate to present circumstances.  "What's up?"  It was a futile question; her eyes fell on the bed with curtailed realization.  "Oh.  Hey, Buffy."

The Slayer frowned.  "Cordelia?  What…"

"Cordy, pet," Spike said, his tone all the indication she needed to know that he was teetering on the edge of reason.  "I need to feed her."

He didn't want to say **blood**.  He didn't want to have to acknowledge to both her and himself what it was that Buffy's body was lamenting.  

Fortunately, that was all the explanation required.  With a short nod, Cordelia disappeared down the hallway.  The silence that followed her absence was some of the darkest—not to mention loudest—he had ever known.  He refused to look at Buffy.  He didn't want to risk seeing the understanding there.  Her dazedness, her failure to yet grasp at reality…he didn't want to be the first thing that came under a gaze of hatred when she understood that she wasn't dead. Not really. That he hadn't saved her.  That he had, rather, condemned her for all eternity.

It was inevitability, as all things were.

"Here." Cordelia was in the room again before he knew it; a mug of crimson goodness at her disposal.  A waft of heavenly fragrance that, for the first time since his death, succeeded to turning his stomach rather than exciting it.  He found himself holding it the next minute and knew the rest was up to him.

"Do you need me?" the Seer asked courteously.  "I could get Zack if—"

"No."  

"Really, it's no—"

His eyes flared and his tone became clipped.  "No."

She nodded, pursing her lips.  "Right.  We'll be downstairs if you need anything."  Her gaze fell upon Buffy once more and she offered a small smile of little compensation.  "It's really, **really** good to see you."

Bewilderment flooded the Slayer's tone.  "Cordelia?"

"Cordy—"

"Right."  The Seer held up her hands. "I'm gone."

Buffy glanced back to Spike, eyes ablaze with uncertainty.  "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you in a minute," he promised, stepping forward with the cup of thick liquid red temptation.  "Firs', I need you to be a good girl an' drink this up for me.  Can you do that?"

"I…" Any want of denial halted in her throat as he drew nearer.  He had sensed her hunger intensify the minute Cordelia brought the blood into the room; now it was nearly burning him from the inside.  If she accepted him, it was over.  Everything was over.  Any want of denial he had wanted to place between himself and the unhappy truth.  She could not know what she was doing to him—what she **could** do with a look.  A touch.  The smallest flicker of recognition.

"Yes."

Yes.

"Right."  Spike neared and gave her the mug.  He felt oddly pious tied in with inherent bonds of sacrilege—as though he was finalizing her pollution with something he could undo if he wanted it enough.  As though the blood on her lips would signify every mean to every end.  **Drink of the cup.  It is my blood, and is poured out for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.**     

The cup was not filled with his blood; it did not need to be. His blood was already within her.  It had brought her this far.  

He watched her with sadness that knew no final plunge.  Watched as she downed every last, sacred drop.

So it was.  If not for the death, if not for the rising, if not for the fangs, if not for knowledge, then definitely for this. 

Buffy was a vampire.  He made her into his own image.

He had damned her.  

Spike collapsed wearily to his knees, hiding his face.  She mustn't see his tears.

It couldn't last—he couldn't hide from her forever.  Wanting would never make it so.  Thus when she implored him, he did not deny her.  

She was examining the empty mug with the worst form of knowledge. "What happened?" 

There it was.  

"I…" he gasped, fighting to his feet.  "I din't mean it, Buffy.  I tried.  God…you were there an' you were dead.  You had left me.  You…" A sigh of defeat rolled off his shoulders.  No more lies.  "I made you into what I am.  You're a vampire."

The silence that embraced them was as fatal as any he had ever endured.

Then she blinked.  Once, twice, and retreated within herself.  "Oh."

Spike reeled.  It was neither casually accepting nor fueled with hatred and demands of repaired glory.  Her mind was piecing itself back together.  She didn't understand; she couldn't understand.  Whatever level of comprehension she needed to aspire was blocking her from the truth.  From what she had known since she opened her eyes.  Since looking at him.  

She was living in a dreamworld.

The knowledge broke his heart all over again.

"Come on," he said hoarsely, begging her near.  "'m gonna give you a bath."

She didn't need it.  He did.  He needed something to distract himself.  Space between them was unbearable even though her presence was nearly noxious to his existence.  Now when she could destroy him with a look, a word, a gesture of significance.  Still, the fact that she was perfectly clean seemed to escape her, and she nodded her compliance.

Spike decided then that the best way to avoid a breakdown was to continue talking.  To console her with words while similarly forbidding himself to think.  He began idly chattering about the Hyperion.  How her former Watcher and Cordelia were running a nifty little set up.  He mentioned Wright and his affinity for weapons.  He told her of Rosalie, the amazing little Seer that had tied herself to him.  That had become his link to the Powers That Be.  He shared his adventures as though reciting a history book.  He did anything and everything to keep her occupied as the bath began to draw.

"Sung me a piece down at Caritas," he was saying as he lifted her shirt over her head, unable to suppress the gasp of pain that shuddered through his body when she immediately trembled to be thus exposed so close to her release.  The marks aligning her skin were close to fading, and she looked to him as Aphrodite. He did not tell her that.  He wanted to draw her attention as far from herself as possible.  To comment on his favoritism to her seemed to be falling very out of integrity.  He didn't care how she was presented to him: she was Buffy.  That was all there was to that.  "Gunn wanted me to do Billy Idol—ha bloody ha, right?—but I figured I'd stun the crowd with some sentimental rot.  Din't really matter to me what it was.  'S not like your fortune changes dependin' on the song you sing."

She nodded dazedly and turned from him, allowing him to draw her hair over her shoulders.

"Lorne sent me to meet Zangy after that.  'E was…" Spike trailed off when he realized that he had lost his audience—that whatever delayed attention she had given him was no longer his for the taking.  When he looked up to see what had caught her eye, he felt dead blood freeze within his veins.  

There it was.  There it **fucking** was.

At that moment, he didn't know what was worse.  The horror on Buffy's face, or the understanding it protected.  That wretched understanding.  The knowledge that finally surfaced above her confused lethargy.  The same that would seal whatever was left of either of them.

She was cemented on the floor, staring at the mirror with the worst form of realization.  Of comprehension.  Of truth.

But nothing stared back.

Nothing.

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**To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Six: _Sacrament_****__**


	37. Sacrament

**A/N: **Hey everyone!  I'm back (obviously) and, to my great surprise, accomplished much writing on the trip.  Well, not much, but a lot considering the big nothing I had anticipated.  The trip itself was a lot of fun, although we had to cut it short as my great-grandmother passed away.  I really don't know what else to say on that—she was ninety-eight, had lived a good, full life, and was still very sharp the last I saw her.  Again with the not knowing what to say, so on to happier things.

A very nice welcome home present…I evidently snagged some awards at VK.  Sang et Ivoire won opposite Kallysten's fabulous Bloody Soul for best Spike POV, and Harbingers of Beatrice picked up awards in the categories of Best Long Fic, Best Crossover, and Judge's Pick.  Am ecstatic beyond belief, and more than grateful to all my readers.  Thank you!  It was a lovely thing to come home to.

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**Chapter Thirty-Six**

**Sacrament**

Gunn eyed the lobby door wearily.  While nothing of consequence could be seen, it still bordered on eerie that nothing had perturbed her sanctuary in the time she spent to herself.  As though the ghostlike aura that she had established for herself had spread through the Hyperion to the point of affecting its residents.  It was disturbing, and he didn't like it.  The weight of Angel Investigations handed over to one so thoroughly unrelated to them, at least on usual terms.  

Right now, though, everything was a go.  

He turned to Cordelia, who was hunched over the counter, absently flipping through a magazine and arched his brows.  "How long has she been out there?"

"Just short of two hours," the Seer replied, not looking up.

"Doing…what?"

"Coming to terms."

Gunn turned to Cordelia fully, flashes of irritation sweeping his face at her casual acceptance.  "And, what?  We're supposed to not talk to her?  Not approach?  After what we went through to get her back?"

"You oughta know out of all people that what she's going through demands privacy."  The brunette closed her magazine with a sigh and pivoted so that she could lift herself atop the reception desk.  "Trust me, compared to the wig fest I was expecting and—to be completely honest—still am, we're getting the blunt edge of the sword."

There was no mistaking the undertones in that observation.  "She's gonna take it out on Spike, then?"

"For his sake, I hope not."

"But you don't think so?"

Cordelia shrugged.  "I don't know, Gunn.  I don't know what to expect.  I know what I would have expected from Buffy, but she hasn't…she's just been out there.  Not doing anything.  And yeah, kinda creepy, but think about it.  She knows Spike loves her.  I mean, if she doesn't by now, she's dumber than a rock."

"No argument there."

"But she's also what she hates the most.  Her entire existence has been turned upside down."  A sigh rumbled through her body.  "I don't know.  I don't know what to expect of her anymore.  I just…I can't see anything."

"Whoa.  We are in trouble."

The brunette shot him a nasty smirk.  "Aren't you going somewhere?"

Gunn nodded, pulling back a bit.  "Just waiting for the boss man," he retorted.  "Wes and I are hittin' Caritas and the usual hangs to dig up the skinny on that girl you saw in your vision."

"You already checked the library?"

"No one fittin' her description has worked there for years."

Cordelia rolled her eyes in aggravation.  "Of course.  It's not like we don't already have our plate full.  We're short one champion, up another with severe antihero issues, have a vamped Slayer on our hands, and—"

"In the meantime are babysitting for your new honey?"

A frown of inherent defense splayed across her lips.  "Rosie's fine."

"Oh yeah.  Rosie's a peach.  It's that Nikki girl that—"

She quirked a brow of interest.  "Gets you hot and bothered?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa.  I am so not into her like that."  Gunn shuddered.  "The kid's got spunk, I admit, but she makes me edgy.  Like I'm tainted by association or whatever."

"Working for a vampire makes you an honorary vampire?"

He nodded.  "Or whatever."

"She hasn't talked to me much since she got here.  She keeps mostly to herself."  Cordelia cocked her head intently.  "Though she does seem to come down a lot when you're around."

"Whatever you're thinking, stop."

"Well, if Zack happens to decide to hang around here after all is said and done, I'm sure it'd be better to have some incentive for her.  Especially if said incentive came in, oh, say…a nice hunka demon hunting package."

Gunn held up a hand, studying her incredulously before allowing several short chuckles to escape his lips.  "So that's what this is about?" he demanded.  "Tryin' to find reason to keep Whitey and his little monsters around?  Doesn't he have some kinda unfinished business around here, anyway?"

Cordelia's eyes darkened as though she had been thoroughly insulted.  "No, I'm not trying to keep him here.  I'd like it, sure.  I'd really, really like it.  Zack's…he's a special guy.  A special guy that I really don't want to say goodbye to.  But I'm not doing anything to try and…I'm not doing anything to convince him to stay.  If he wants to, he does.  If not, he doesn't.  It's as simple as that."

"Why?"  The question seemed to surprise her, and he rejoined it with a corresponding laugh.  "I don't get your logic, is all.  If it's going so well, you should try to work it out."

"There is no it, Gunn."

"No it? Hell, I know I'm not one to lecture on the science of long-term relationships or…stuff.  But I know enough to know that whatever it is you two have definitely qualifies as an it.  Zack isn't a fling guy."  Gunn's eyes widened wisely.  "He chose you because there's something there.  Because you have…whatever it is that you have."

Cordelia pursed her lips thoughtfully, objection draining from her countenance.  "I don't know."

There was an unnecessarily heavy pause—things growing more rigid than the man was comfortable with.  Both were a little more than grateful when Wesley and Nikki appeared at the head of the stairs.  

"Are we going to that demon place?" the girl was asking, her features betraying an interest that was entirely more piqued than anyone had seen since she assumed her residence on the upper levels.  "I'd be fine with that, you know.  It was amazing.  Your friend was so informative.  And that's coming from me.  Personal growth and all that whatnot.  I was all about the looking past the fact that he's a green demon and likely has some nasty habit akin to baby eating, and—"

Cordelia held up a hand.  "Whoa, whoa.  What's going on here?"

"We made the somewhat colossal mistake of introducing Ms. Wright to Lorne," Wesley explained dryly.  "After convincing her to not chop off his head, we provided evidence of why it's beneficial to associate with empath demons.  She was more than taken with him."

"Kinda scary," Gunn verified.   

"For the thousandth time, Wes, my last name is not Wright. I'm Amber's sister, not Zack's."  Nikki rolled her eyes—appearing more vibrant than Cordelia had seen her since initially making her acquaintance.  The urge arose once more to tease Gunn mercilessly but she pushed it aside with grace that would have at one point seemed nonexistent.  It was more than obvious that something had influenced her temperament; whether or not said influence came from an interest from a very attractive and very single demon hunter was a different story.

The former Watcher cast a weary gaze to the double doors that led to the portico, worry lines creasing his face.  "How is she?"

A sigh rolled across the Seer's shoulders.  Everything was on standstill until Buffy acted.  Until she resolved the unhappy disclosure that plagued her with the more resolute reality.   "Difficult to say."

"Has she asked for anything?"

What he meant was had she asked for Spike; Cordelia reflected wryly but not without more of the same.  It was amazing how quickly the peroxide vampire's feelings, thoughts, and concerns had become common apprehension.  

"No.  She…" The brunette emitted a deep breath, followed his gaze, and quickly recollected her thoughts.  "She came downstairs, said she was a vampire, and went outside."

"She's been out there ever since," Gunn confirmed.  He turned to the Seer with interest.  "Did you see the look in her eyes?  So…"

"Empty," she agreed softly.  Her eyes shined with poignancy and concern. 

"It was creepy."

"Not to completely change the subject," Nikki interjected.  "But where's Zack?"

"Upstairs, trying to get Spike to come down." Cordelia smiled weakly.  "He feels bad…responsible."

"As well he should," she agreed.  "Turning the Slayer into a vampire isn't something I'd ever classify as his shining moment.  In fact, he hasn't shown an ounce of good sense since we met up with you people.  I mean, even Spike was against her transformation.  If that wasn't an indication to—"

"Nikki," Gunn intervened warningly.

"I'm just saying."

"Well, stop saying."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Look, I know that once I came to the hotel, I entered some sort of freaky vamp rehab facility that has seemingly distracted my brother-in-law's attention from the reason we came to this city in the first place.  He's all with the 'Spike's a good guy' motto, too.  That so does not swing with me; I don't give a shit what any of you say.  Watching Zack give up everything to sponsor a bloodsucker and even go out of his way to make a new one?  I—"

"Stop," Cordelia barked dangerously.  "You have to know how difficult that decision was for him."

"And yet, he made it."

"He made it to spare Spike what he went through when he lost your sister."

A shadow befell Nikki's face; dark and dangerous.  She stepped forward brazenly, eyes flashing.  "You know nothing about that."

Gunn and Wesley exchanged nervous glances.

The Seer remained respectively calm.  "I know what I saw."    

"What?  You think since you've fucked him that you somehow get some sort of special—"

Gunn grasped the girl by the shoulder.  "Stop there before you're stopped."

She spared him a nasty snicker, tamer than she would have given Cordelia but without censorship nonetheless.  "He made the decision to spare a vampire's feelings," she spat contemptuously.  "I don't even know him anymore."

"Spike's his friend."  The Seer, ever neutral, stepped forward as though trying to reach through her hostility.  "Spike's our friend.  His being a vampire is simple consequence.  Angel's a vampire, too.  And yet we're still here."

"Angel.  You mean the guy that really killed the Slayer."

"That wasn't Angel," Wesley said softly.  "That was Angelus.  There is a difference, Nikki, and you must respect it."

"He has fangs, he drinks blood, and he only comes out at night.  Not seeing much difference."  She stepped forward again, gaze not wavering from Cordelia.  At some point, the civil conversation had transformed into a meeting of powers.  The girl was visibly afraid, though of what was happening to her brother-in-law for purposes of his mission or the finality in his moving on after Amber's death, no one could be certain.  It was likely a mixture of all of the above.  "Same thing with Spike.  He's no longer helpless.  He'll turn on you."

"With all due respect," the former Watcher intervened once again.  "If it was Spike's intention to do so, he would have by now.  It is not in his nature to wait."

"He has to be the most impatient man in the world," Cordelia agreed.

Nikki shook her head.  "Man," she repeated incredulously.

"That's enough."

The interruption at that was full and angry; drawing the attention to the upper veranda where Wright was peering over the rail.  His appearance betrayed fatigue; undoubtedly, he had seen better days, but anger for the moment was the dominating sentiment.  Cobalt eyes settled ruthlessly on the girl—though it was impossible to tell if he was more disgusted with her for speaking such things, or himself for putting the words there in the first place.

The silence that settled thereafter was thick and more than disconcerting.  It was a welcome break when Gunn finally curled his grip around Nikki's forearm and tugged her to the door.

"Come on," he said.  "Time to go."

She remained still for an unblinking moment, then slowly nodded her consent.  "Yeah," she said.  "Time to go.  People to save, and all."

Wright watched them emotionlessly as they left the hotel.  It was distressing; finding herself in a position where she could not read his expression for the first time in days.  Cordelia nodded to Wesley with a taut sigh, reading his promise to contact her if anything of consequence occurred and verifying hers to do more of the same.  

Then the moment had passed and they were alone.

Zack watched the door for long seconds as though daring Nikki to return and continue her offense.  When he was satisfied that they were alone, his eyes darted sympathetically to the Seer and softened with candor that she wasn't even sure he knew he betrayed.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's not your fault."

"I should've taught her better."

"You taught her as you needed to," Cordelia replied with a dismissive wave.  "It's her choice to remain this way.  I mean, look at you.  You've grown amazingly accepting these past few…whatever."

A weak smile drew across his lips.  "Don't think me a saint, or even reformed," he said.

"Oh, don't worry."

He deliberately ignored the teasing note in her tone and pivoted to continue downstairs.  "I don't know if I'll ever accept what I did."

There was no need for clarification.  Knowledge was a nasty storm, and it hung its purple cloud over the Hyperion, waiting for the first signal to begin the inevitable downpour. 

"Does that really matter?" she asked softly.  "You did it because you thought it was right."

"I still do."

Cordelia frowned.  "Then…?"

"I can't explain it, Cordy.  It's one of those things that I'll have to come to terms with on my own."  He was beside her, then, emerging from seemingly nowhere with eyes that were redder than she would have liked.  Stressed beyond the limitation of stress.  And slowly, he spared a glance to the doorway where Buffy still had not emerged.  "Any change?"

"None."

"She's going to hate me for doing this, isn't she?"

The Seer smiled and brushed a kiss across his lips.  "That's what Spike said," she replied.  "Only he thinks the blaming is going to be aimed more at him than anyone else."

"She has no reason to hate him.  I did what I did before he could retaliate."

"Yeah.  I know that, you know that, he knows that, but can't accept it."  She exhaled deeply.  "As for Buff…well, we won't know until we know, you know."

Wright stared at her for a full minute before allowing a warm smile to spread across his lips.  "You're an amazing woman, Cordelia."

"Oh, I know."  

"I mean it."

"What, and I don't?" She spared him a teasing wink.  "Don't try looking, Zack.  The word modest definitely does not find itself across my forehead."

"I would not have it so," he replied matter-of-factly.  "It'd make you less than Cordelia Chase.  And I couldn't stand for that."

There had been many times in her life when she found herself at the pleasing end of a compliment.  Many, many times.  Ever since grade school, she had been accosted by male admirers and those wanting to be male admirers.  She had heard absolutely every line in the book and redefined several for her own liking.  But never in the length of any courtship had she been floundered with words.  Had her…whatever Wright was to her…made her feel what she felt simply by doing what he did.  By making her…feel.  

It was by all circumstance the most wondrous experience in the whole of her life.

Still, she couldn't let him know that.  Rule #347 in the Guidebook To Men And Dating By Cordelia Chase: never let him know how you feel before you have verification of his own regard.  After all, pride was a precious thing.  She didn't want hers wounded.  

Her heart was tender as well.  Despite whatever she told Gunn earlier, she was wrestling with the temptation to beg him to stay after everything was over.  Saying goodbye was not one of her strong suits, especially when she was so attached.  More attached than she was willing to admit; even to herself.  

"Yeah," she agreed absently.  "You're just looking to get some tonight.  I won't fall for that, buddy."

"Pity," he replied with a rakish grin.  

They shared a long look that spoke for more than words could hope, then simultaneously drew their attention back to the porch, where Buffy remained unmoved.

It was unfair that they get this far only to fall short of the finish line.  Cordelia sighed heavily.  Spike had sacrificed so much for her.  It was only right that she try to even the odds a little.  Only a little.

"Hey…" she said vaguely.  "Zack, could you go heat up some blood?  Oh, and sprinkle some Weetabix in and mix it up.  Spike's insisted we keep a handy supply since you two became the resident attendants."

Wright nodded but arched a suspicious brow.  "What are you up to?"

"Nothing much," Cordelia replied, shrugging dismissively.  "Just a peace offering."

*~*~*

"You look sad."

The intrusion was so soft, so timid that Spike nearly felt his heart turn over.  He had been aware of the scent for several minutes but made no move to acknowledge or discourage the impostor from his asylum.  He sat in the chair that had housed him in the long hours waiting for Buffy's awakening, watching the bed with solemnity so singular that he didn't reckon it knew a proper name.  Unmoving.  Silent.

There was such emptiness where there had once been life.  In all his years, with all his experience, the peroxide vampire had never truly felt dead.  Not until this night.  Not until the ghostly expression of imposed horror settled over the Slayer's face.  Entered her eyes with such stormy disposition that he thought himself gone in every sense of the word.  Such coldness.  He had never known such coldness.  

He wondered if he was a beacon for sadness.  If that was what prompted Rosalie to disturb his solitude.  Either way, it didn't matter.  The disturbance was welcome.  Freeing.  It kept his mind occupied from the less friendly truth.

"'m fine, Bit," he returned absently.  "Jus' worried."

"About your lady friend?"

Despite the circumstances, a small smile tickled his lips.  "Yeh," he replied.  "'Bout my lady friend."

"She's afraid."

That prompted a glance.  Spike looked at her with mounting concern.  "You saw that?"

The girl offered a frighteningly adult smile.  "Didn't have to."

"Oh, 's obvious then?"  The vampire sighed heavily.  "That's comfortin'."

"She's downstairs with Dad."

"Yeh."

"You should go down, too.  She wants you there."  

A sardonic grin overwhelmed him; aimed at himself more than anyone else.  "Lemme guess," he drawled.  "That's obvious, too?"

"Yes," the girl replied.  The simplicity behind her voice was more revealing than astonishing.  Though his acquaintance with Rosie was at a minimum, he felt he knew her well enough to expect the unexpected.  She was a smart kid.  Freakishly smart.  No child should know the things she knew as intimately as she knew them.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.  Soft.  Companionable.

"She loves you, you know."

Spike blinked, not attempting to conceal his astonishment.  The notion was awe-inspiring.  The idea…the conception…the thought… "She what?"

"She loves you.  It was her last thought before she died.  About how she loves you and she wished she had a chance to tell you."  Rosie offered a smile and neared precariously.  "I saw that.  Before I told you…before I told you and Dad what…" She trailed of obligingly when he winced his pain.  "I saw what she was thinking.  She was thinking that she loved you and that she was sorry—"

"Stop!" The word came out a rumbled gasp as he tore himself from his seat, straining visibly to maintain some level of control.  In these raw stages, it was so easy to forfeit the entirety of himself.  "Please—"

"She's just afraid," the girl continued knowingly.  

"She—"

"You're afraid too, aren't you?"

Spike paused once more, waves of understanding overwhelming him.  The child was so gifted.  In seconds, she managed to cut through whatever reservations he maintained about himself.  She said the same thing that it took others forever to work up the courage to approach.  Not many people could accuse him of fear and survive, regardless of age.

Or so it had once been.  Forever ago.

It was bizarre; having memories that he knew were real but couldn't fully recall.  Life before loving Buffy, before knowing this insufferable conscience, before everything that tormented his nonsoul—the concept was so entirely out there that he at times had trouble believing that it was him at all.  The vampire documented in history was violent, carefree, not the best thinker, and ruthless.  He never displayed any form of mercy on anyone.  He hunted out little girls—girls younger than Rosie—from coal bins.  He had impaled countless wankers with railroad spikes.  And even then, his notoriety wasn't touched.  He was William the Bloody, after all.  He was reputed for some of the nastiest, vilest kills accredited to vampires.  Accredited to history.

And here he was.  Sitting in an empty room with people he considered friends, his eyes dry and red from crying, his shattered nonexistence so close to breaking again that the want of oxygen had all but reborn into something else.  He couldn't hold anything for fear of shaking it until it fell.  He couldn't look Rosie in the eye.  He couldn't conceive that anything she said was true.  That Buffy loved him.  That Buffy had loved him.  

The eyes that had traveled to his, haunted by what she hadn't seen, haunted by something that was supposed to be there but wasn't…more of the same that screamed plainly that forgiveness was dead and this bland existence was all that was left.  She hated him.  There was no doubting that.  Spike knew hatred.  He knew hatred better than he liked to acknowledge.  And while he had not sensed her revulsion toward him, he could not conceive the look in her eyes to be anything but.

"Yes," he replied at last.  "'m afraid."

Speaking the words was treason to himself and his kind, but in a strange way, it felt good.  It felt damn good.

"Whenever I'm afraid or sad, Dad plays Barbies with me to cheer me up."

Spike blinked.  That he had not been expecting.  Suddenly, his mind was filled with the visage of Wright sitting next to a poncy pink dream house, brushing annoyingly blonde hair and talking to his daughter's play pals with an amusingly effeminate lisp.  The picture was so unexpected, so random, so fucking hilarious that he didn't realize he had lost control of his laughter until his long dead lungs made an attempt to take a deep breath before conceding defeat all over again. 

Rosie was smiling as though she knew what she had done—which, in all fairness—she likely did.  "He has his Skipper and Nikki is Teresa, only she changes the name to something like Rachel, I think.  But Dad can't all the time.  Sometimes he's away trying to hunt down some demon or find the lady that murdered my mom."

The vampire commanded control over himself once more, mirth fading without announcement as the conversation took a radically serious turn with more of the same.  It amazed him that she had the ability to do that.  To seize command of things like that.  It shouldn't have, after all this time.  And yet, he figured that even her father could never grow accustomed to predicting her and finding any measure of success.  

"Do you remember your mum, Bit?"

There was a short pause.  Rosie slowly shook her head.  "Sometimes," she said.  "Sometimes I see her…but I think it's in my mind.  That it's not real."  A trembling sigh coursed through her small frame.  The poignancy in her stature was enough to render a stone to rubble.  She had such strength at such a young age.  It was astounding.  "I know that I knew her once.  I told Dad what was happening to her."

He nodded encouragingly.  "Did you?"

"Yeah."

"Like you told me about Buffy?"

"I tried.  I tried so hard to see her."  The girl was quivering now—as though overwhelmed with the influence of her power.  With emotions she could not feasibly understand and more knowledge than what was deserved of her.  No child should go through this.  And yet, the Powers had decided to bestow their gift into the heart and soul of one so young.  There were reasons for everything.  "I was up in my room for a long time trying to see her.  I wanted to help you.  I wanted to help…"

Spike smiled softly and approached tentatively, delicate fingers running the length of her blonde curls.  "You helped, sweetheart," he reassured her.  "More than you can know."

"I don't remember my mom, but I remember what it did to Dad."  Her eyes fogged over emotionally.  "He's never been the same.  I remember him happy.  I do.  I really, really do.  And I know that was because of Mom.  But I can't see her."

"That happens, Bit.  You were jus' a li'l tyke, after all."

"I want to remember her."

"'Course you do."  He couldn't help himself; he knew he was turning into a First Class Poof, but the girl's plight called to him in manners he would never openly acknowledge.  Spike leaned forward and kissed her forehead, tucking locks of hair behind her ear.  "'S natural.  An' who knows?  Maybe you will someday."

There was a meek edge to her voice.  "You think so?"

"'Course.  As a matter of fact, I know so." When incredulity overwhelmed her young features, he fished until finding another option.  Suddenly, pleasing the child was as important to him as anything else had ever been.  "Tell you what: 'f those Powers 'aven't given you a break in a few years, you come look me up in SunnyD…or wherever I happen to be.  I know a few blokes with a bloody lot of power."  He offered a heartfelt smile.  "Got someone who could help you out."

Rosie read into his eyes with a grin.  It was slow coming, but there nonetheless.  It was all he needed.  "Thanks."  She paused when his smile widened in turn.  There was hesitance about her countenance, but the girl was visibly afraid of nothing.  Things could shake her, intimidate her, but never frighten her.  Never truly frighten her.  And Spike took solace in that knowledge.  "I'm glad…" she began softly.  "I'm glad that Dad did what he did.  You were hurting.  I felt you hurting.  He tried to fix it."

At that, Spike froze considerately.  

"He didn't want you to feel what he felt when he lost Mom," she continued.  "He did it to help you."

"I know he did, Bit."

"You should tell him it's okay."

A small smile cracked across his face.  "Maybe I will," he replied.  "Someday."

Rosie nodded, not entirely satisfied but resigned that she would get nothing better out of time tonight.  And that was that.  She bid her farewell, noting once more that he should go down to Buffy because the Slayer loved him.  Because the Slayer loved him and needed him now more than ever before.  He wanted so badly to believe her.  

So badly.

But he wouldn't go.  He couldn't stomach it.  The knowledge of what very rightly remained buried under such brazen appearance.  He had seen the look in her eyes.  He had seen valleys that once burned with life fall under desolate reparation.  The thought that such could be turned on him, that she would regard him as the one that had brought her down, had ruined her, had…

No.  He couldn't. Call it cowardice.  Call it irrationality.  He couldn't bring himself to face her yet.  

At least with this he lived with the hope of love.  

Spike snickered wryly.  Over the years, he had discovered hope to be as empty as any of the earth's other promises.  Not much could be countered.  Betrayed.  Not for what he had to lose.  

Everything.

But it was there.  In some sense, it was there.  And it would carry him through the night.  The night until morning.  The night until he had to face her.

It was all he had left.

**To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Seven: Forgiveness****…**


	38. Forgiveness

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

**Forgiveness**

"Hey, girlie."  Cordelia presumptuously assumed the vacant seat next to her, plopping a mug full of blood into the Slayer's empty hands.  "We gotta talk."

Buffy was far and away.  That much was simple to decipher.  Her gaze remained fixated on the cup of warmth that touched her skin, its tempting aroma wafting dangerously near her sensitive nostrils.  She knew what it was—there was no denying that.  And yet, she couldn't remember it looking so appealing.  She couldn't remember it emanating such a heavenly scent.  The thought was thoroughly disgusting.  Blood.  The essence of life.  Blood was what her body craved.

Blood, because her body had changed.  She was a vampire.

**A vampire**.

"Hey," the other woman said when her offering gauged no reaction. "It's okay.  Really.  I've seen Angel do it about a thousand and a half times.  Not to mention, Spike's been a sort of bloodaholic since he got here."

Buffy pursed her lips, stared at the red temptation a minute later, then raised her gaze to Cordelia.  Wondering.  Waiting.

"Come on," the Seer prodded.  "You can't just whither away.  Spike would never forgive me if I didn't take care of you."

That seemed to reach her on some level.  With an absent nod, the Slayer lifted the cup to her lips and indulged a long, hearty taste.  It couldn't end there.  Once the crimson goodness hit her tongue, she was guzzling it down with hunger she had never known before.  Hunger she didn't know could exist.  Hunger that replaced anything felt on a mediocre human level.  As though she had been made for this.

But that wasn't true.  It **couldn't** be true.

Buffy jerked her head back with a gasp, aware of the sweet-smelling thickness that encased her mouth.  "What did you do to this?"

"Nothing!  Well, okay.  I added some Weetabix and cinnamon.  Spike's always bitching that if you don't give it flavor, it's not nearly reaching the potential for maximum whatever.  The experience or whatever you wanna call it."  Cordelia smiled sympathetically.  "He's too worried about you to look out for you right now.  So I've decided to assume the responsibility until he gets off his self-loathing ass and confronts you himself."

At that, the Slayer frowned.  "Confronts?"

"Yeah.  It's this thing where he thinks you hate him.  Want some more?  We're stocked up on all the goods.  A, B, O—pos or neg.  Whatever you want."  She arched her brows invitingly.  "Spike's a lot pickier than Angel when it comes to his blood types.  Some mornings, he's in the mood for a good bag of—"

"Wait.  Stop.  Please."  Buffy held up a hand.  "Back to the part where Spike thinks I hate him?"

"Oh.  Right.  That.  Well, there's this thing where he made you drink from him to become a vampire.  And really, it wasn't his idea.  That was Zack.  Zack lost his wife a few years ago to vamps—Darla, actually—and he didn't want Spike to go through what he went through.  They've become friends and such.  It's sweet."  Cordelia made a move to get up.  "Are you sure you don't want some more?  It's no big—I'm used to being Ms. Waitress around here."

Buffy grasped her arm, worry filling her eyes.  "He thinks that?"

"He loves you."  She said it so simply.  As though it meant nothing.  As though it wasn't revolutionary.  The Slayer had known it, of course.  She remembered very clearly acknowledging it both to his face and to herself in the minutes before her death.  Before she reached a similar revelation about her feelings.  And yet, hearing the words spoken aloud by someone who wasn't her gave her such blissful liberation.  It filled her insides with warmth that she had feared lost to her forever.  

"He loves me," she repeated, eyes flooding with tears.  "He does?  Really?"

Cordelia snickered and settled next to her once more.  "Don't tell me you doubted it."

Buffy shook her head.  "I didn't know.  How could I know?  He came for me when he shouldn't have.  When he had no reason to.  He made the hurt go away.  He told me things that should've been impossible.  He…" She trailed off in a manner that clearly explained to anyone that had she the ability; she would be flushing right about now.  "He made me feel good when it wasn't possible.  I think I wanted…" A powerfully overwhelming breath seized command of her; she pivoted sharply and grasped the Seer by the wrist.  "He loves me?"

"More than life itself, honey.  Well…he's a vampire so I don't know if that terribly overused cliché works in that context, but we'll just say it does, how 'bout it?" Cordelia smiled.  "Yes, he does.  Very much.  So you should march your booty up those stairs and tell him that you don't hate him."

At that, Buffy's face fell once more as though remembering something.

"He made me a vampire."

A sigh coursed through the brunette.  Powerful and unwanting.  "Yeah, he did.  He really did.  You hate him for it?"

"No."

"But you don't forgive him for it?"

"He…" Buffy trailed off helplessly.  "I'm a **vampire**, Cordy."

"Yep.  Noticed.  Lots of people are vamps.  They kinda crowd the town."

The Slayer turned her gaze downward, falling on her hands as she examined herself.  The look on her face betrayed some form of morbid curiosity; as though she should be physically transformed more than usual due to her newfound vampirism.  "He made me into what I hate."

"He did it to save you."

"I know."

"And you don't hate him."

"I can't hate him," she replied softly.  "I can't.  I…" Her eyes clouded with tears.  "I can't.  I promised him.  I…" The emotion buried in her gaze finally reached her voice, and she broke without warning, leaning forward as the empty bloodstained mug smashed haphazardly to the concrete.  "I don't know what to think anymore, Cordy," she sobbed.  "These past few days…weeks…however long I was…it felt like forever.  It felt like a nightmare.  A nightmare.  And I was just waiting to wake up.  I was waiting for my world to come back.  Not real.  Not real.  None of it was real.  It couldn't be.  While I was there.  Spike came and he made it real.  I thought…I thought he was there to hurt me.  But he didn't.  He came and gave me…more than anyone has ever.  And I loved him.  For that.  For everything.  For being him.  For being someone I had never seen before while…I loved him so much."

Cordelia nodded her understanding, carefully keeping her tone neutral.  "Do you still love him?"

She nodded pitifully, unable to form the words.  "I don't know how or…it doesn't seem real.  I still feel like it's not real."

"It is."

"And when I realize that, when it finally hits home that this is the way things are…will I still love him?"  Buffy shook her head.  "I hope so.  God, I hope so.  I promised him things would never go back to the way they were.  And they can't now.  Even if I wanted them to…because he made me into what he is.  He made me a vampire."

"Zack made you a vampire. Spike has done nothing but resent him for it since it was done."  Cordelia gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.  "I can't imagine what you went through, Buff.  And frankly, I don't want to.  Angel's a good friend of mine, and even though he and Angelus are…I just don't wanna think about it.  But Spike…what Spike went through while you were…he made believers of all of us."

"I love him and that scares me.  It scares me so much."

"Why?"

"Because it's him.  Because it's me.  I'm no good at loving, Cordy.  I never have been.  I never loved Angel."  She smiled wryly when the Seer reeled in astonishment.  "I figured that out, too.  And it hurts.  The great love of my life wasn't a love at all.  Just a teenage infatuation.  I don't think I know how to love."  A sigh shuddered through her.  "And somehow, the love thing scares me more than the vampire thing.  I guess I half expected something like this to happen.  I thought Angel would kill me, and he did.  I didn't know if he'd turn me or not, but I thought about it.  I never thought that hanging there would make me love.  And even so, I never thought it'd be…I never thought it would be Spike."

"Why?"

The Slayer's smile remained with dry actualization. That seemed to be a favorite question of hers.  Just as well.  It was the right one for the time being. "Because it has always been him.  Somehow it always has.  And when that became real…" She broke off, shaking her head.  "I don't know.  I just don't know anymore.  Everything that I did know is coming apart.  And nothing can make it right again."

Cordelia pursed her lips thoughtfully.  "That's not true."

"It's not?"

"Maybe not the version of right that you're used to.  But you and Spike…you can make a different kind of right."  

Buffy could not spare herself a small grin.  "You sure seem to be pushing this 'me and Spike' thing."

The observation earned a shrug in turn.  "I just don't see where the conflict comes in.  You have to get used to the vamp thing, right?  You love him, he loves you.  Where's the problem?"

"It's complicated."

Cordelia's gaze widened.  "How is it complicated?"

"It just is."  Buffy's eyes clouded with nameless emotion.  As though she couldn't think or feel for the impact her actions were bound to have on both her and the man upstairs that awaited either amnesty or condemnation.  "Love just complicates things.  I haven't…I've never felt this way before.  Ever.  And I don't know what it is.  I don't know if it's gratitude or love.  It doesn't feel like gratitude.  It feels…"

There was an appropriately lengthened pause.  The conclusion was all the same; anyone could tell that.  It was merely a matter of getting there.  "How?" she asked finally.  "How does it feel?"

The Slayer allowed a small, genuine smile to tickle her lips.  "Wonderful.  Like…like nothing I…" She broke again and shook her head.  "I don't know what I thought.  How I thought things might change when I was…but I do remember what I felt when he…when he was with me before.  When he came for me.  And it hasn't changed.  I feel different.  Really different—on levels that go way beyond the not being alive in the most technical sense thing.  That's something I have yet to grasp.  One thing at a time.  I just…"

"The vampire thing?"

"One harsh reality at a time," she reiterated with confidence.  "And I have a habit of dealing with the big thing first.  What happened wasn't his fault.  I know enough to know that.  The Spike that…the Spike that came to help me…to save me…"

"He's the same Spike you knew from before," Cordelia said, earning a sharp, hopeful glance.  "Trust me.  He might seem different, but worrying yourself into a second death does that to you.  He showed up here the day after you were taken.  Or the next morning or something like that.  Evidently, he came right after he received word that you were gone and verified the entire plan to Giles and all the others before he left."

Buffy's eyes distanced.  "Giles…"

"They're in England, now."

"I know.  I…I just…" She broke off harshly and shook her head, clutching herself with tightness that suggested she expected to be whisked away at any minute into some self-constructed purgatory.  It was amazing how similar she and the platinum vampire were in such telling gestures.  The Seer reckoned neither would ever know enough of what to look for to recognize it for what it was.  "I can't think about that now," she decided ultimately.  "My multi-tasking skills seem to have been dulled.  One thing at a time."

"That's understandable," Cordelia assured her.  

The Slayer nodded as though trying to convince herself.  "Right.  Now…what happened?"

"With what?"

"After Spike got here.  What'd he do?"

The brunette grinned and made no move to hide it.  Little things like that were **very** good.  "Well," she began again, "I threatened to stake him."

Buffy cracked a nostalgic smile.

"Lindsey had sent us a warning about Angel being all evil and whatnot, so we had a friend of ours strengthen the vamp no-invite policy.  Spike got here and stood outside screaming his head off until we agreed to invite him in on the condition that the story was okayed by Giles."

"That must've driven him crazy," she remarked.

Cordelia flashed a conspiratorial grin.  "You have no idea.  But we worked together well, for what it was worth.  It took him a little while to trust us and vice versa, but it's strange how close we've become.  I'm not gonna lie to you sister; we're probably going to put up a fight to keep him here."

The notion, for whatever reason, seemed to warm the Slayer.  The cold confusion behind her eyes thawed—not enough to make a significant difference, but as much as necessary.  For now.

"You've grown that attached to him?" she asked.

The Seer nodded.  "We all have.  He's a part of the gang, whether he wants to admit it or not.  I almost can't remember him not being here, really.  He and Zack have gotten really close.  It's kinda cute watching him with his friends."

Buffy was smiling all out now.  Evidently, she found the notion just as adorable.  "I've never seen him with friends.  Really…I guess I never…"

"It's cute," Cordelia repeated.  "They met after Lorne directed him to someone who could help him get you back.  He had to sing at Caritas—it's this demon bar—in order to be read and get that far, and—"

  "Spike sang?" The Slayer blinked.  She had a distant memory of him telling her the same, but it seemed so foregone that she had not been sure if the conversation had actually occurred or if the entire event was something her overly active mind conjured.  Until now, she had suspected the latter.  The idea of Spike singing was…well, it was charming, not to mention sexy as hell, but she hadn't thought it something he would do for any purpose.  

"Hell yeah, he did," the brunette replied enthusiastically.  "And man oh man, does that boy have a gorgeous voice.  I swear, there wasn't—"

"He sang?"

"Yep."

"In front of people?"

Cordelia nodded, smiling at her bewilderment.  

"He sang for **me?"**

"Honey, you have to move passed this.  Yes, he sang for you.  Some Rufus Wainwright number, I think.  The owner of Caritas—Lorne—is an empath demon that can read you when you sing.  Give you your future or destiny or whatever."  She paused briefly.  "He did that for you.  Because he had to know that you were all right.  'Course, he didn't get any of the goods that he was looking for.  Lorne could only give him his future, not yours.  But it did lead him to Zack, and that was that."

The Slayer entertained a small grin.  "You like him, don't you?  Zack, or whoever."

"In ways that are very unchristian," Cordelia agreed with a devious smile.  "But, gotta be honest, I've never been a Christian person."

Buffy nodded her acknowledgement.  "I can't imagine you like this," she observed.  "You're so different from what I remember."

"I am like this."  The brunette shrugged.  "Never imagined it myself, but stuff happens."  She paused considerately, appraising the Slayer with a pensive eye.  "So…why's it complicated?"

There was a long beat of silence; any hint of jollity falling from her eyes without much incentive.  "Because if this is it," she said softly.  "If what I feel is real…"

"Do you think it's real?"

"Yes."  There was no hesitation: only knowledge.  Despite her shortcomings, she believed it to be real.  And in many ways, that was all that mattered.

"Then—"    

"It's the scariest thing that's ever happened to me."  Buffy expelled a deep, shivering breath.  "I don't know why it would be…but that it's real…and somehow, that terrifies me.  It's something that's…" Her eyes were filling with tears again, threatening to spill at any turn.  "It just terrifies me.  I want it but I'm scared of it, too."

"Scared of what?"

"I don't know."  She shook her head.  "It's just too much, Cordy.  Too much, too fast."

"Was it too fast before you were vamped?"

"I didn't think so.  It didn't feel like it there.  I guess it was easier when I was chained up.  Not that I would ever, ever go back."  A shudder shimmied down her spine.  "But when it wasn't real yet, I could let myself love him and be loved without being afraid.  I'm so scared."  She distanced perceptibly.  "I'm scared…I think I'm scared of being hurt.  Of putting myself in…of giving myself over completely and…if he drops me, it'll…"

"Hurt?"

"Among other things.  If I never loved Angel and his leaving did to me what it did…what would happen if Spike left me?  What—"

"Wait.  Whoa.  Hold the phone."  Cordelia was staring at her incredulously.  "How can you think that you're not forever to him?  Do you have any conceivable idea what he went through to get you out?  He's been tearing himself apart.  When he hasn't been with you, he's been trying to get back to you.  Zack told me he broke down sobbing when he saw you.  I don't even think **sobbing's** a strong enough word.  What Zack told me was…it broke my heart.  And he stayed with you all night.  I couldn't get him to come downstairs for anything."  She shook her head, almost angry.  "I'd give anything to have what you two have.  Only I wouldn't be down here moping that the man who worships you is going to hurt you when he's upstairs, hurting more than…well, hurting a lot.  I'd be up there with him.  Hell, I'd be in sweaty, naked goodness.  I would not be down here thinking about how loving the one person who would never hurt me might hurt me.  That's stupid, Buffy.  You're just setting up barriers for yourself to keep you from being happy.  Well, guess what.  You don't have any curse.  You don't have anything holding you back.  You have a gorgeous vampire upstairs that's hurting because he thinks that you hate him.  Now, get off your undead booty and march your ass up to him and—"

It was fruitless to continue, though.

Buffy was gone.  Halfway through her tangent, she had gotten up and walked out.  

She had gone upstairs.  To him.  

Cordelia entertained a small smile.  All the better.

*~*~*

The sight that greeted her when she summoned the courage to face his room was enough to break the strongest of wills and shatter a champion of hearts into a thousand pieces. 

Spike was on his knees staring at her abandoned bed.  He wasn't moving, wasn't breathing, and that bothered her.  Despite however strained their acquaintance had been, he had always made the pretense of being alive, whether for her or his benefit was a completely different matter.  

For all intents and purposes, he might as well have been a statue.  A marbled Greek god reduced to his knees through his distressed worry.  It upset her.  Whatever else had drawn them apart; Spike's strength was the one consistency she could always depend on.  Even when he was at the severest of disadvantages, he always made light of the situation.  He always bluffed his assets.  He always made sure that if he went down, it was at the pinnacle of a fight.

That was something she had always respected, despite however different their relationship of the past had been.  

She didn't like seeing him defeated.

Hurt.

Not an inch of his body flickered in recognition.  Nothing betrayed his knowledge of her being there; that he was even attune to her.  

She knew it was otherwise.  It couldn't help but be otherwise.  Not with what they shared.  And here they were—connected in the most intimate of fashions.  There was nothing stronger than a sire's pull on his childe.  She needed him, but she didn't.  She loved him, but she was afraid.  She wanted to calm him, but feared losing whatever of herself was left.  With what?  Rejection, perhaps.  There was nothing to suggest he would ever reject her.  But the fear there remained.  The fear that he would look her in the eyes and everything that she had experienced while chained at Angelus's leisure would have truly been something of her imagining.  

Looking at him now, she knew it was anything but her own imagining.

It was everything.

Delicately, Buffy leaned to support her weight against the doorframe, her hands falling with near pious relevance in front of her.  "Spike?"

The air could not have been heavier.  Silence stretched her.  Taunted and teased her.  He made no move to even acknowledge that he had heard her speak.

She drew in a breath, waited for a minute, then tried again.

"Spike?"

Nothing.

That was it, then.  It was all or nothing.  She wouldn't let him get away that simply.  With a deep breath designed to support her confidence, she shook her head and set forward.  The strain of tension stretched palpably across his shoulders.  As though every step she presumed was furthering his agony.

But he didn't say anything.

Almost blindly, she reached out.  Some innate part of her had to touch him.  When her hand found his shoulder, she nearly crumpled at the raw strength that coursed beneath her fingertips.  With all the power she had ever thought to exercise, she had never assumed that it would take so little to break one man.  One vampire.  The thought was terrifying.  

**She had the power to defeat giants.**

The thought barely had room for birth.  No sooner had her hand grasped his shoulder had his own sought out her fingers. The touch he offered was fiercely delicate.  As though nothing but being near her gave him such pleasure.  His skin was cold.  Colder than a vampire's.  Colder than anything she had ever touched.

**Oh God.**

"'m so sorry," he whispered.

Buffy bit her lip, fighting the flood of tears that rose instinctually at the raw pain buried in his voice.  It was too much.  Everything was an undercurrent of too much.

But she did not pull away.  Instead, her hand moved in slow, comforting strokes against his neck, nails scraping lightly at his skin.  She felt the ripple of pleasure catch him, heard the forbidden breath he took at her tender attention.  She also felt his disbelief.  The suspense held there that demanded nothing this congenial came without a definitive price.  

She intended to banish that thought away.  For long seconds she held fast, her fingers screaming in delight to finally do what her body had been craving for days.  She had wanted to touch him so badly.  She had wanted to reciprocate his delicate attentions when he caressed her.  She had wanted him to know how much he meant to her just by being there, and that she wasn't using what he gave selfishly.  That she would love him just as greatly given any circumstance.

Despite how afraid of love she was.

She loved touching him.  She bet she would love tasting him too.

Buffy drew in an unnecessary breath, hardly aware of the moisture clouding her eyes, and knelt forward to brush a kiss over the nape of his neck.  The tension wrought through his body tightened rather than released.  She realized then that he was every bit as afraid of her as she was of him.  The thought sent her reeling over the edge.  Cordelia had warned her, of course, but some part of her hadn't wanted to believe it.  Spike was a tower of strength.  He, after all, had brought them this far.

"Spike," she murmured against his skin.

At that, she heard him inhale deeply.  "God," he blabbered.  "'m so sorry, sweetheart.  I never meant to.  I never—"

"Spike—"

"—wanted this for you.  God, I was too late.  I was too late to save you.  Too late to—"

"Spike."  She whispered another kiss across his skin, and this time he nearly sobbed at the release her touch brought.  "Look at me.  Please."

There was nothing he could deny her.  With a calm, concentrated breath, he rose to his feet and turned to face her at last.  The pain behind the raging storm stole want of understanding from her lips.  She nearly broke at the sight he presented.  What he willingly gave.  He might as well have outstretched his arms and invited her to stake him; he looked to want nothing else.

Buffy smiled through her tears.  God, he was so beautiful.

"Please," she whispered, unaware she was speaking until the neediness she had not known herself capable of tainted the tortured air.  

"Please what, baby?"

That was a good question.  Her mouth quirked at the term of endearment. 

He was trembling.  He was trembling and she had done that to him.

"Do I scare you?" she heard herself asking, having no idea where the question came from.  It was merely there.

Nevertheless, he didn't question her wording.  He was honest with her.  "Yes."

The way he said it—without batting an eye, without pausing for consideration—was one of the most startling revelations that had ever overpowered her.  And even though she knew the answer, hearing him admit as much shook her to her core.

"I wonder…" she mused thoughtfully.  "You've never feared me before.  We've been through a lot, Spike.  Why would you choose **now** to finally…I just…why?"

Pain swarmed behind his eyes.  Pain and the fear of hope.  She knew it well enough to identify it anywhere.  And even against his will, he found her palm where it was pressed against his cheek, her fingers lightly exploring his softened peroxide locks.  His lips sealed a kiss against her skin.  "I fear your hatred," he whispered.  "God, Buffy, I don' think I've…I…look at what I've done.  What I turned you into."  The trembles wracking his form were becoming more pronounced.  As though he could not contain himself.  "After everythin' I've seen, everythin' I've done…I don' think I've been afraid before.  Not before I knew you.  An' even then, the terror I felt tryin' to get you out of there…God, I don' think I've ever feared anythin' like I fear your hatred."  His head bowed reverently.  "'F you hate me, 's all right.  'S what I deserve.  But I don' know how 'm gonna be able…I don' know where to go from here.  God help me, Buffy, I don' know where to go after you."

There was truth there.  Horrible, frightening truth.

Buffy had tasted her fair share of fear over the past few years and she was sick of it.  This last fulfillment. Whatever they earned, she needed.  She needed to banish fear and not incite it.  She needed to give him what none other ever had.

It was the least she could do.

Thus, delicately running her hands up his arms to link behind his neck, she brought his forehead down against hers, rejoicing in the contact.  "I don't hate you," she whispered.  "I could never, ever hate you.  You've done more for me than anyone I've ever known.  You—"

He broke away, choking his disbelief.  "I turned you into somethin' you hate!" he protested.  "I made you—"

"That wasn't your fault."

"How can you—"

"Okay.  You don't believe that, obviously.  How about this.  I don't blame you.  Not at all."

Spike blinked at her in disbelief.  "How…why—"

It was simple enough to go for broke.  She couldn't lie to him if she wanted to.  "I don't know."  The most honest reply she could have possibly given him under these conditions.  "I don't know about anything, Spike.  I'm not all right.  I'm about as far from all right as anyone could be right now.  I haven't dealt with the vampire thing yet…" She paused briefly when she felt him tense beneath her hands.  "It wasn't as important to me as you are."

He made no move to disguise the breath that lodged in his throat.  Fresh tears were clouding his eyes, each pulling at a different heartstring.  "You have no idea," he said hoarsely, "how much I wanna believe that."

She offered a touching smile.  "You should," she whispered.  "It's true."

"I don' understand—"

"Neither do I.  I've already given up trying to understand."  Her hands clutched at him desperately and he gave into her willingly, his own arms pulling her closer into his embrace.  Cool relief flooded her body.  She needed this.  Needed this even more urgently than she thought to.  "I'm so…everything's gone wrong.  Everything.  And I'm not okay.  I'm not okay."  She found her head urged to his shoulder when her will broke and the sobs she had been keeping in finally tore through her in endless waves.  "I'm not okay.  Not okay."

"Shhhh," he murmured soothingly.  "'S all right, love.  Everything's all right.  You jus' let it out.  Let it out. God, 'm so sorry I did this to you.  So—"

He was cut off abruptly; she pulled back and practically attacked his lips with hers.  He remained in stunned delirium before her tongue pushed into his hard softness, and then he was all but ravaging her with his mouth.  The pent up tension, the longing, the worry, the sadness—so much sadness.  Everything imaginable poured into such a simple but desired union.  They nibbled and tasted each other.  Needing far more than could be given.  Needing everything and nothing at all.

With a gasping breath, she pulled back.  "Stay," she begged.

"What?"

"Stay with me tonight."  Buffy saw objection flood his eyes and found the sentiment thoroughly heartwarming, but pressed a finger to his lips before he could vocalize his protest.  "Just…I don't want to be alone.  Please.  Don't leave me alone.  Could you just…" Her eyes lowered to the floor.  "Stay with me."

It was an amazing thing; watching as boundless love deluged his eyes.  

"Are you sure?"  His forehead nudged hers amorously.  "I don' wanna…"

"Yes," she breathed.  "I might not be okay…but without you…I don't wanna think of where I'd be."  She smiled poignantly against a shield of emotion.  "Right now, Spike…you're my line of reason.  Please stay with me tonight."

A long, still beat passed between them.  One that spoke for more than anything words hoped to touch.  The light shining through his eyes was everything she would ever need.  And when he nodded, there was nothing else to reach for.  Nothing else to understand.  He merely stepped backward, her hand held in his, and gathered her in his arms as she settled against him.

Against him.  Where she felt truly safe.

Long into the night, she felt his fingers caressing the contours of her face.  Sleep was impossible, but there were no more words.  No words.  Only silence.

The silence of a sanctuary.  There in the purest embrace she had ever known.  Against Spike—against the one she loved.  It was completion as she had never known before.  It was everything.  Whole.  Fulfilling.

But most of all, it was temporary.  Just for the night.

The first night in many where she had known solace.  And for one second, one blessed second, the world was gone.  The world in all its screaming horror.  Her pain was on reserve.  Saved for tomorrow.  Saved for when she had the strength to face it.

For now, though, she was enjoying a stolen moment with the one she loved.

And it was enough.

**To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Eight: _Devil in the Belfry_…**


	39. Devil in the Belfry

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

**Devil in the Belfry**

The first thing she was aware of was the warmth that surrounded her entire being upon awakening.  It was a bizarre feeling.  Despite the lack of substantial heat, the sense of protection that settled without thought was as true as anything she had ever known.  While she knew it unfair to persist in the likeness between Spike and Angel, she couldn't help noting a continuity of difference.  Her former lover's arms had never offered pure comfort.  He was always tense.  Always afraid of what he might do.  Of what she might do.  Even in the few select instances when they had found succor in each other's arms, he had never been wholly at ease.  He had never trusted her.  They had never trusted each other.

When Buffy awoke late that afternoon entwined in Spike's embrace, the sensation of security and adoration that besieged her was so ample, so pure, that for the briefest minute, she could imagine everything as perfectly all right.  That the cares that burdened her to the earthly vortex were gone forever.  Not because Spike was there—she would never force the entirety of her well-being on someone.  But together, together, they were infallible.

The Slayer turned to face her sire completely.  **Her sire**.  His arms were abound her tightly, hers draped over his chest, curled over his side to draw him even closer into her.  The look on his face reflected the same worriless regard that had befallen her upon awaking.  Any hint of the previous night's grief and revelation was temporarily banned from retrospection.  He was at peace.  For the briefest while, he was at peace.

Buffy smiled faintly.  There was still so much to consider.  So much to think about.  She hadn't yet allowed her mind to fully embrace the truth about her nature.  She was still so very afraid of what would come of it.  What it meant for her.  The thought that her cells were instinctively drawing away from the light sealed intently from the room bothered her on unfathomable levels.  The idea of drinking blood to live had yet to make home within her psyche.  And the big one.  Immortality.  She was here forever.  She was bound to the world and her duties until the world finally ended.  Until she knew the dust that had clinched the fate of so many before her.  She was the hunted.  She was a vampire.  She was a creature of the night.

It was too much.  Too much to wrestle with now.  

And still, the idea of love was so much more frightening.  It gave her so much more to lose.  The steps she was taking now was full into alien territory.  Whatever she had experienced before lay by the wayside of her feeling now.  Angel.  Riley.  None had ever gone to the extents for her that this man had.  And while it was unfair to assume they wouldn't have, Spike had gone in on blind faith.  He had given her hope when no other could.  He had given her everything.  **Everything**.

But that wasn't why she loved him.  There was no **why**.  There was only knowledge.  She loved him.  His faults, his cockiness, his loyalty, his devotion, how it took crumbling that outer wall to get to the good stuff.  How he loved so unconditionally.  Even when it was against his nature.  When it was against his very being.  He had still come for her.  

He always would.

Buffy secreted a small smile at that, her eyes traveling the expanse of his body.  He hadn't bothered to undress the night before more than to discard his customary black shirt to the ground.  Gunslinger jeans clung approvingly to the sensual curve of his alabaster hip, doing little to hide the small marks and wounds that only centuries of living could bestow.  Imprinted knowledge in his skin.  Experience.  He was a work of beauty.  From his fingernails that were coated in chipped black polish to the peroxide locks that draped inelegantly into his face to the scar that distinguished his eyebrow.  His imperfection made him perfect.  

One hand was curled around hers.  It nearly made her flush to consider how well those hands knew her now.  So little and so much had passed between them.  He had given her comfort with no want for himself.  He had given her so much.

Her eyes settled across the length of him again.  She wanted to give to him, too.  She wanted to try to repay the tremendous debt she owed, even though she knew he would never accept it.  The last thing she wanted—the last thing he wanted—was for her to come to him out of gratitude.  And while she was grateful, there was a line between thanks and what she felt.  A line so definitive she suspected the blind could see it.

Buffy pursed her lips uncertainly.  They hadn't explored their relationship the night before.  They hadn't even defined it.  Words, confessions, all of the above remained reserved ad infinitum—to attempt and envisage his mood upon awakening was a tentative endeavor.  But she wanted this.  She had waited so long to touch him.  To deny herself now was nothing short of self-torture.  She wanted to touch him.  The samplings she had stolen the night before could not hope to compare to what she had dreamt of doing.  Small fantasies.  Whims to keep her company while she was away.  Things that she would have once banished from her mind with graphic astonishment.  

She had never done this.  She had never fathomed **wanting** to do it.

She wanted to now.

Carefully, she extracted herself from his arms, dropping a kiss onto his chest.  His head quirked a bit at that, but he gave no sign of waking.  Buffy cocked her head with a small smile, her heart warming again.  It was just so…

Without thought, her hand was wandering across his abdomen.  The feel of his skin under her fingers sent cool shivers across her body.  And she wanted more.  More, more.  Always more.  Even in his sleep, he was indulging all primitive responses.  Small goosebumps sprouted across his stomach and a smile quirked his lips.  But he was asleep.  She knew it.  She could feel his deep slumber.  His peace.  Wherever his mind was, it was far from consciousness.

But not her.  Never from her.

Buffy's hand dropped to the waistband of his jeans, wedging through the belt loops as she used his weight for leverage to pull herself closer and dropping brief, openmouthed kisses across the skin she explored.  A responsive purr reverberated through his body, his hand searching for hers through his sleep and finding solace when his fingers wove into her hair.  The touch was gentle and did nothing to jar him to wakefulness.  Merely a reassurance that she was there.  Some call from the dreamland he currently entertained.     

More notably, the strain against his jeans had turned fiercely pronounced.  The Slayer was enjoying herself and found no reason to hurry, but she similarly could not resist briefly turning her attention to the demanding bulge.  A low moan rumbled through his mouth at the contact; her eyes shot up in time to see him lick his lips and move sensually against her.  He remained asleep, but she was willing to bet that his dreams had taken an interesting turn.

"Mmmm…" The Slayer's hand seemed to have a prerogative of its own; despite its possessor's will.  She found that one sample was hardly enough—her fingers indulged long strokes the suffering denim, a smile tickling her lips when he gasped sharply and arched against her.  "Someone's happy to see me."

She sneaked a quick peek up.  No change.  His balance was normal, if not a little excited, and she reveled in the variation of knowledge.  It was nothing particularly noteworthy—some vampire sense that she had adopted with the transformation, but it was nice.  Over time, she reckoned, she would grow accustomed to just how much it took to get Spike to wake up.  How much he could stand without beckoning participation.

It occurred to her that she had just associated herself with a sector of the vampiric lifestyle, and the knowledge was somewhat liberating.  It was small, of course, and not nearly enough, but a start nonetheless.  That was good—relating herself with the brighter aspects of her transformation before she confronted the whole of the bad.  

Buffy shook the thought away as she stripped herself free of clothing.  There were too many unknowns floating around out there and she wasn't ready for that step.  She was still so afraid on so many levels.  And yet, the prospect of losing herself wasn't as scary as it had been the night before.  Love was a frightening thing.  Love was the indirect cause of her conversion.  Love had guided Spike to her from the beginning.  Were it not for love, she would have died without a blessed second chance.  She would have lost herself.  She would have been lost without hope.  

It was scary.  It was so scary.  But it was also real.  

Her fingers encircled the buttons keeping her from her objective, deftly popping the first open when her patience got the better of her.  In seconds he was free to her; his manhood leaping into her willing hands, engulfing her with the feel of him.  The long hardness that he gave her, even if he remained unaware of her ministrations.  Somehow she knew that the cool steel enjoying her gentle caress was all for her.  And the notion warmed her beyond reproach.

It wasn't enough.  She needed more.  Always more.  Drawing in a deep, excited breath, she shimmied his jeans down passed his knees, leaving him splendidly bare to her exploration.  

Buffy turned her eyes upward once more.  Without removing her eyes from his face, she crawled upward and delivered a long, lavish lick to his length.  This time, his reaction was so enthusiastic that the entirety of his pelvis leapt up, beseeching her for further attention.

A devious smile curled her lips and her tongue snaked over the leaking head of his cock, drawing drops of precum into her mouth.  The hint of his taste surprised her—he was delicious.  The act in itself had a reputation for degradation that she had always assumed its outcome to be no more pleasurable.  Spike, however, had a flavor that stood proudly unique from anything she had ever sampled.  Whether or not her love for him had heightened the experience or not was something she doubted she would ever truly know.  

In hindsight, she suspected it didn't matter.

Buffy glanced up again.  No change.  Her hands curled around the base of his erection, tightening instinctually as her mouth became more boisterous in its explorations.  Her tongue took to his quivering underside, fingers careening and caressing the weight of him.  With each taste she stole from his skin, the more she wanted for herself.  Her confidence gaining momentum, she settled next to him, licking in long, even strokes.  Savoring the richness of his skin.  The feel of him quivering beneath her touch.  His responsiveness, even in his sleep, was incomparable.  Every twitch, subconscious moan, every move he made enhanced the opulence of her enjoyment.         

It was even more of a rush when she felt him jolt to awareness.

She felt his sweeping confusion as though it were her own.  The gasp that tainted the air was one of the most inspiring sounds that had ever touched her ears.  Spike attempted to sit up, but once he caught a glance of the attentive blonde between his legs, he collapsed in awe against his pillows, thrusting against her with involuntary urgency.  

"Oh God," he moaned.  "My God.  Buffy…"

"Mmmm?" she asked rhetorically, sending vibrations through his skin.

Spike whimpered inarticulately.  "Christ!"  

The Slayer pulled back impishly, eyes sparkling.  Everything was worth it if only to savor his reaction.  Her lips lingered for a deliciously long moment before leaving him altogether.  The agonized groan that tore from his vocals at the loss buzzed every nerve in her being.  "Nice way to wake up, huh?"

"Oh God…"

"Want more?"

He thrust against her pleadingly, gaze wide and frantic.   "Buffy!"

"I'll take that as a big yes."

The surprise faded; Spike leaned invitingly against the mattress, all lazy satin and seduction.  It amazed her how quickly he could change seasons; begging one second and in complete control the next.  "Very big, luv," he purred.

"The biggest," she agreed, granting him a kittenish wink.

"You flatter."  A groan spilled from his lips as her tongue found a particularly sensitive vein, her fingers busy caressing the weight of him.  She caressed him for long, agonizing seconds before tracing him again lightly with her teeth.  "Feel free to…oh god, don' stop."

"Really?"

The peroxide vampire's eyes widened as though he doubted her ability to think it otherwise.  "Please," he begged.  "Feels so bloody good, baby.  So…oh…"

Buffy quirked a brow, her mouth moving to sample the texture of his sac.  Once more, Spike whimpered and crooned back.  His hands, however, had an entirely different route.  Almost intuitively, he sought out the sweet wetness from her apex of curls, stroking leisurely to bring her over with him.  He attempted to bring her body closer to taste her richness fully, but she was steadfast.  This morning rendezvous was for him and him alone.  

However, that didn't stop her from spreading her thighs to allow him access.  And the next moans that tickled the air were hers.

Then they were moaning together.  Her hips moving sensually against his as their attentions sharpened in wondrous unity.  Even still, she remained singularly focused.  Every whimper to touch the air was music to her ears—stylish cliché and all.  Her focus returned to his cock when his groans reached summit, her grip tightening at the base.  Everything else was instinct.  Her nibbling tastes as much to her enjoyment as to his, her own excitement drawn more from his responsiveness than anything she thought possible. She took him as far into her mouth as she could, her hands moving back to the fullness of his weight to massage erotically, her strokes moving in direct counterpoint to her lips.  Then she was deep-throating him in earnest, drawing him in as far as she could and back again, suckling at his flesh with eagerness that did not know her.  The taste of him, his skin against her tongue…she couldn't get enough of him.  When she sensed him fighting the immediacy of his climax, she drew him out completely, smiled as his whimpers of protest colored the air, and swirled her tongue again over the head once, twice, and that was it. With her hips crashing against his fingers and her mouth battling his thrusts for dominance, she grasped his thighs and held determinately when the power of his orgasm flooded her with enthusiasm she couldn't have anticipated.  Wave after wave surged through him—the impact of his fullness drowning into an abyss sweeter than anything he had ever hoped to discover.  His own grasp was forced from her womb and replaced at her hips, holding with such fierce severity that he wasn't sure even her pure and strong femininity was enough to anchor him.   

Buffy smiled warmly as his shudders subsided, licking him clean and restoring his hardness.  The pants that mingled in the air were naked and colored in disbelief.  Reality returning where it had no chance before.  For long minutes, he left himself to gather his bearings, detached and nearly unaware of even her presence lingering so near.  She rested against his hipbone, drawing artless patterns across his abdomen.  The thought struck her with breathtaking revelation as she watched him; there was no way she would ever get enough of this.  These leisure mornings of granted solitude.  The love she felt swarm within her at every touch.  The incredulity and adoration blazing behind his eyes when they finally found her.  He looked at her as though he had never seen her before.  As though the impact of his feeling was threatening to spill from him, he could not contain it.  He unraveled her with a glance.  He saw into her with nothing more than a glance.

And he was always surprising her.  One minute watching her with calm scrutiny, the next reaching for her with such insistence that she could not deny him.  He finally found her hips and dabbled with no pleasantries, no further foreplay.  As though the imminence of her release would impact him even greater than her.  His tongue plunged into her, searching and nibbling and tasting her hidden cavern as his fingers found her clit and kneaded her in soft, sensual strokes.  He searched.  He implored.  He drank her fully until her waves were crashing over him.  Until it was her pants coloring the air.  Until they were coiled on the bed, recovering together.  

Forever could have happened and neither would have noticed.  When she summoned the strength, Buffy turned and crawled up the length of him, curling into his side as though she had been made to fit there.  His arms wound around her and held her against him, nuzzling her hair as he slowly returned to himself. 

"Buffy…"

She smiled and crooned, suddenly bashful for reasons that were unfathomable to her.  "Hey," she replied, burying her head into his shoulder.  

He stared at her blankly, as though the possible weight of her shyness enchanted him.  "Hey yourself."

"Whatcha doin'?"

Spike couldn't help it; he smiled.  "'m tryin' to fall back from Heaven.  You?"

"Getting used to feeling safe," Buffy retorted.  "It's a funny sensation."

There was a heavy pause; the hand stroking her back absently coming to a brief pause.  "You feel safe?" he asked lowly.  "Here?  With me?"

She feathered a kiss on his chest.  "Yes."

"With me?"

"Again, yes."  A small smile tickled her face.  "So it was okay?"

"Okay?  **Okay?"**  Spike's arms tightened around her.  "That was the most amazin' thing I've ever…" His face nuzzled her hair, inhaling the fullness of her essence.  "I've never felt anythin' like that.  You're so…god…'m never gonna get enough of you.  I never could."

The smile grew timidly.  "I'd never done that before."  Buffy buried her face in his chest to hide her embarrassment.  "I'd never wanted to with anyone."

"You didn't—"

"I wanted to with you."  She brushed a kiss against his skin, unable to refrain from teasing a nipple with her tongue.  The moan she coaxed sent small ripples of pleasure over her skin.  "I wanted to share that with you.  Just you."

The peroxide vampire stiffened perceptibly, though it was not from discomfort.  The weight of his euphoria, as well as the furthered emphasis on his fear, tainted the atmosphere with a sense of cherished foreboding that could not be embraced nor ignored.  Infinitely at a standstill.  Continually attempting to find where they stood.  To make that foundation secure.  "You amaze me," he breathed a minute later.  "You absolutely amaze me."

"I don't see why."

"Why?" he repeated hoarsely.  "God…I don'…" He trailed off as his thoughts meandered and lost their footing.  "Because you shouldn't be here.  After what I did to you…there's no reason…" His lips found her temple and lingered reverently.  "You shouldn't even let me touch you.  'm not worth it.  After what I did—"

"I thought we covered this already."

"I jus'—"

Buffy sat up and moved for his mouth, kissing him with such fervor that he could not mistake her intent.  Her meaning.  The truth behind her words.  Even if he never agreed with them, he would likewise never doubt her sincerity.  Her forgiveness.  She had given him more than anything he had ever hoped to touch.  And here she was.  In his bed.  Sharing his bed.   Her tongue wrestling with his for dominance, sampling the fullness of his essence.  He tasted as good as he smelled.  Faded cigarettes and liquor, the more present salt of his tears and, more overpoweringly, herself. 

Spike moaned into her, finding his own taste and the richness of her mouth. God, she gave him so much.  Gave him everything he didn't deserve.  More than what he didn't deserve. 

"I don't know how it happened," she said softly when they pulled apart.  "But I know that it started before this.  It started…I don't know when it started.  Maybe it started the first time I saw you."  She felt him smile at the implication, but continued before he could interrupt.  "But this is what I want."

Spike froze, arms clamping around her.  "What is what you want?"

"This."  Buffy's eyes leveled with his so that he would understand her.  So that he would have no reason to doubt.  "You.  I want you."

Awe and disbelief flooded his gaze. That and so much love she expected to drown in his ocean.  "You want me?"

"Yes."

"You…" She watched emotion overwhelm him to the point of tears, and feared tumbling after him.  The knowledge that she could kill him with words was already more power than she wanted, but the understanding that his love could flounder her elevated her to levels she had never experienced before.  "Oh, Buffy, I—"

A sharp knock shattered their solitude, bringing the world outside back to deafening reality. 

There was little peace.  Cordelia's voice followed shortly thereafter.  "Hey!  You two alive in there?" 

Buffy felt Spike grow rigid but clamped a hand on his shoulder before he could offer a retort.  "Hardy har har, Cordy!" 

"I thought it was cute.  Anyway, we got a problem."

The mood in the room automatically dropped.  The vampires exchanged troubled glances.

"What is it?" Spike asked.

"You better come down."

Another beat passed.  "We'll be right there," the Slayer conceded.

They both sensed her move away.  Spike grasped Buffy's wrist to hold her to him.  

"We're not done here," he promised huskily.  There was something in his tone that made her clench her thighs together in anticipation.  

There were a thousand witty things that sprung to mind but she lacked the prosperity to voice any.  Thus she opted with the safe ground.  "I know."

A grin tickled his lips but he did not call her on it.  Instead, his eyes averted to his legs and a frown creased his face.  "Uh…what happened to my trousers?"

"I took them away."

"Not all the way away."

"I know.  Got kinda frustrated, so I left 'em."  She shrugged.  "We better get going."

Spike smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.  He expressed so much with so little.  He gave so much without giving at all.  And it was all she needed.  "We're not done here," he repeated, gaze dropping to her mouth.  "We're not even close to done."

This time, words did not fail her.

"You better believe it."

He kissed her and it was everything.  More than everything.  A place to find that relief.  A reasoning behind whatever truth she had ever known.

For this, he had given everything back to her.

And she could never repay it.

*~*~*

The world was not nearly as frightening descending the stairs as it had been on the way up.  Spike and Buffy were careful not to look too hopeful, even though their hands were clasped and they couldn't tear their eyes from each other for more than a few seconds at a time.  It was a state of suspended rapture; they didn't want to exhibit more than they felt a right experiencing while their relationship was still young, not to mention undefined.  

A few things were evident right away.  The lobby was as packed as it had ever been.  Nikki was lounged in one of the middle sofas with Rosie in her lap.  Kate Lockley and Lindsey McDonald had propped themselves against the checkout counter; a foul disposition over the former, but everyone was—by now—accustomed to her.  Wesley, Wright, and Cordelia were talking quietly near the former Watcher's office, and Gunn was surveying the weapons display.  

"Bugger," Spike muttered.  The Slayer turned to him with wide eyes and he nodded at the icy blonde who had turned to briefly observe something to McDonald.  "I don' even know the bint all that well an' I know that her bein' here's not a good thing."

"Who is she?"

"Some police officer your ex honey managed to brass off."

Buffy's brows arched appraisingly.  "I see.  So why's she here?"

Spike nodded at Cordelia, who brightened at their appearance.  "Got a feelin' we're about to find out."  His eyes averted to Wright and a smile broke across his face.  The demon hunter was staring at the Slayer in wide-eyed reverence.  He had not seen her since the botched rescue.  He had not seen her as she was in normal light; the tension searing across his form was palpable, but the curiosity and noted assessment was even more so.  The vampire grinned and tightened his grip on his ladylove's hand.  "But firs', there's someone I want you to meet."

The Slayer followed his gaze.  She knew Wesley and Cordelia; the other two were strangers.  It was the look in the rugged man's eyes that betrayed him.   The fearful inquisitiveness.  The genuine wall of concern.

This was he.  This was the man responsible for her vampirism.

There was a rustle from behind.  "Excuse me," the officer began immediately.

Spike tossed a nasty glance over his shoulder.  "Hold up," he growled, tugging Buffy alongside him as he started for the other side of the lobby.  

"That wasn't nice," she whispered to him.

He shrugged in response.  "What can I say, luv?  'm a bad, rude man." 

A smile whispered across her face and she leaned up to brush a kiss over his throat, reveling in the shudders that broke across him.  "Yeah, you are," she agreed.  "An awfully sweet one, I might add."

He gave her a look that was meant to be menacing while secreting the glee that shined behind his eyes.  "Hush.  You'll give me away."

Buffy cuddled self-consciously into his side.  "Couldn't have that.  I want you all to myself."  She could have flushed under the smoldering look he gave her at that and instead nodded at the increasingly apprehensive demon hunter.  "Think he's scared of me?"

"Bloody terrified."  Spike flashed a quick grin.  "But 'e'd never admit it."

"If it's any consolation, I'm not mad at him, either."  A shudder ran through her.  "I'm still…I'm still dazed a little, but I'm not mad.  I don't think…with everything that happened, I don't think…"

"That's fine, luv," he assured her, dropping a kiss on her head.  "But 'm not the one you should be tellin'."  His eyes brightened as they stilled.  "Buffy, this is Zangy."  He nodded to Gunn.  "An' that bloke's Charlie."

The Slayer's brows arched expectantly.

"Zack Wright," the demon hunter clarified, grasping her hand with such overwhelming fervor that it couldn't help but touch her heart.  "I can't begin to tell you how much I've heard about you."

A warm smile touched her lips.  "It's great to meet you, Zack."  Her eyes averted to the one so lazily brandished as Charlie with wry expectation.  "And—"

"Gunn," he corrected, shooting a hell-freezing gaze that had absolutely no effect in Spike's direction.  "Charles Gunn.  Just Gunn, as a matter of fact.  **Not** Charlie."

"I didn't think you looked like a Charlie," she agreed.

"Yeah, well, you might try tellin' your boyfriend that."

Again, she felt Spike stiffen.  He very notably had no objections to the term itself in reference to her, but he was ever conscious of her reaction.  They needed to have that talk soon; while his integrity was as adorable as ever, she wanted him to be certain that she returned his regard in every manner possible.

"What?" Buffy replied with a laugh.  "Don't tell me you guys have been hanging around each other all this time and you still don't know how stubborn he is?"

"Well, you know guys," Cordelia said, leaning on Wright's shoulder.  "In one ear and out the other.  It's going to be nice to get some additional feminine influence around here.  Other than Wesley, of course."

"Of course," the Slayer agreed with a nod.

The Watcher frowned at that.  "I beg your pardon."

The girls exchanged a conspiratorial grin and chuckled quietly together.

"How you feeling?" Cordelia asked a minute later.

"Good," Buffy replied.  "Better.  Much, much better.  Last night was kinda heavy…I guess this entire thing's gonna be one of those one-step-at-a-time shindigs."

"Nah," Gunn drawled in jest.  "Weeks of torture, dyin'…I woulda thought you'd be ready for some real down partyin' and the whole nine yards.  Don't tell me you're **tired,** girl."

"You'd be surprised at what can do it for you," the Slayer commented, smiling faintly.  "I guess my threshold came when—"

Spike's hold on her hand tightened.  He wasn't ready to hear about this.  Obligingly, she quieted and nodded instead for the discarded pair at the front counter.  "Anyway, what's up?" 

"We have vampire trouble," Wesley simplified, nodding at the blonde officer and McDonald, who started over without hesitation.  "Buffy, this is Detective Kate Lockley.  I believe you know Lindsey."  She nodded, eyes sullen.  "Best we can figure, Angelus is aware that his attempt to murder you was…" A dramatic breath rolled across his shoulders.  "He knows that you've been brought over."

Buffy tensed, eyes fluttering closed subconsciously.  Her grip on Spike tightened, and she pressed herself against him as though searching for security that she innately did not need.  His presence was comforting, and she capitalized on that comfort.  The memories that even Angelus's name brought when spoken aloud were too fresh to explore.  As though every part of her that had ever felt pain suddenly screamed to agonizing life.  

"How?" she asked softly.

"'S Dru," the peroxide vampire answered.  "She had one of her visions."

"Most likely," Wesley agreed.  "Lindsey also speculates—"

"There's a chance they were exposed to the security film," the lawyer intervened.  "I haven't been there to supervise, therefore I cannot say for certain, but—"

"Whoa.  Wait."  Buffy's eyes went wide.  "Security film?  As in…cameras?"

Spike's gaze narrowed dangerously.  "You've seen everythin' that—"

"Yes.  I know.  Bad.  But hey, I'm over it."  Lindsey held up a hand diplomatically.  "It gets worse."

The platinum vampire snarled and his eyes blazed a dangerous yellow.  "How worse?"

"Worse as in your friends have been tearing apart the town," Lockley growled, blue gaze blazing with arctic fire.  "In a manner that is blatantly obvious.  In two days, they've hospitalized more than—"

"I don't wanna hear it," Buffy decided, pulling away from Spike for the first time.

"They're trying to draw you out," Lindsey said.  "He wants to—"

"What part of 'don't wanna hear it' didn't you get?  If you need, I can go over it again, slowly if you like."

"With all due respect, Ms. Summers, you have to hear it," Kate retorted.  "Because until you answer, people are going to keep dying."

"You heartless trollop," Spike snarled.  "You're askin' her to—"

"I'm sure that if you have a better idea, you wouldn't have waited so long to give it to us."

"This is the firs' we've bloody well heard of it!"  The platinum Cockney turned hotly to Wesley, his expression as deadly serious as any had seen it.  "You better get her outta here before I take a chunk outta her neck.  You have—"

"Spike." Buffy laid a delicate hand on his arm, her touch sponging his hostility into her with power that was frighteningly potent.  "It's all right."

His eyes softened, the swarm of emotion grounding her with palatability.  "She's askin' you to—"

"I know."

"You can't.  I'm not gonna let him near you again."

"Hey, I'm not breaking into song over it."  She smiled faintly.  "But I'll be ready.  The reason he bested me last time was because I wasn't ready.  This is what I do.  I—"

A choking note wormed into his tone, his eyes powerfully emotional.  "No.  Buffy, please…" He glanced down, shivering in his determination to keep from a more pronounced emotional outburst in front of his colleagues.  "I can't have you out there again.  After what I went through…'s too soon."  He turned an accusing eye to the lawyer and his accomplice.  "You're askin' this too soon!"

"Tell that to eighteen year old Miranda Livingston, whose funeral is arranged for tomorrow afternoon at three," Lockley snapped, not the least bit moved.  "Or how about twenty-three year old graduate student Clark McAlister.  He died of severe hemorrhaging as a result of—"

"Stop!" Buffy cried.  "I don't—"

"Yeah, it's easy for me to stop.  Tell that to Angel."  The officer stepped forward intently.  "I know it's asking a lot.  It's asking more than a lot.  What you've been through…I can't begin to imagine.   But I do know about you, Ms. Summers. Granted, I don't know everything about Slayers, but I know enough. I know that you had power before and I'm willing to bet that you have even more now.  If anyone can put an end to this, it's—"

"The answer's no," the peroxide snarled.  "I don' give two fucks what your sodding reasoning is.  'S not—"

Buffy's hand on his arm tightened.  "I'm going to have to do it."

"No."

"Spike—"

"No.  No, I can't stand for that.  Please."  He turned to her violently, eyes large and beseeching.  The sheen of tears he was trying to restrain flooded her with grief.  If ever she had doubted the trials he had endured with her seizure, every inkling of conviction was before her now.  "Please don'…" In desperation, he pivoted to Wright and nodded.  "We'll go.  Zangy, Charlie, Wes…we'll go."

"I'll go," Nikki volunteered.

The peroxide vampire, Wright, and Cordelia flashed her a series of irritated glances with one indisputable decree.  "No."

"But I—"

"No."

The Slayer pulled Spike back to her.  The look in his eyes had not changed, nor had its power over her heart lost any sway in the past few seconds.  She felt her will crumpling without forward warning.  "I need to do this," she said softly.

He was shaking his head even before she spoke.  "No.  No.  'S too soon, baby.  I can't…you can't do this to me so soon."

"Spike—"

"I can handle Peaches," he promised.  "I can."

"We all can," Zack agreed with a nod.  "Especially with Lockley coming.  Right?"

It was a clear challenge.  One that she accepted gladly.

"Of course."  Kate's gaze centered on Buffy.  "If this is a problem that you two need to work out, by all means.  But I have to agree that a Slayer on our side—"

The platinum vampire growled dangerously, turning with such force that it took her by surprise.  "Shut your gob before I rip your tongue from your mouth."

"Hey," Lindsey contested.  "Calm down.  There's no reason to—"

"No reason?  No bloody reason?!"  His hand moved to tighten around the Slayer's subconsciously.  "She's all the reason I need."

There was no way her heart could withstand that statement without melting.

"We need to stop this before it gets worse," Lockley said reasonably, reasserting herself with a calm breath.  "We need to apprehend Angelus."

Spike shook his head.  "'S too soon.  You can't take…"  He exhaled deeply, turning his gaze to Buffy.  "'S too soon.  I know you're…you're brilliant at what you do, sweetheart.  There's none better.  But I can't…'s too soon.  I jus' got you back.  Losin' you was…" His voice broke and he turned away, suddenly self-conscious.  "Please don' ask me to…"  

Kate's eyes narrowed unsympathetically.  "You selfish bastard."

A resonating growl rumbled through the Slayer's throat that she hardly noticed.  

The peroxide vampire appraised her with an adoring look that seared with raw emotion.

"Hey," Cordelia snapped.  "Back off.  You've been Miss Absentee for the past forever.  Spike's done all the work.  He deserves a break.  Okay?"

"Because he's afraid to get his feet wet—"

"I'm not going."

The entire lobby drew to a defined standstill.

"Ms. Summers…" Lockley began slowly.  "I know this has been a trying time for you, especially given recent circumstances, but—"

"I'm not going.  Not now."  Buffy emanated a deep, anxious breath.  "I'm too…I wouldn't help.  At all.  I'm not ready to go against him.  With what happened…it was like nothing that's ever happened to me.  It was…" She broke with a shudder, drawing on her sire's strength subconsciously.  "It's just…not enough time.  And I'd be unbalanced, Spike would be unbalanced, and I'd be even more unbalanced worrying about Spike getting caught off guard because of his unbalanceness."  She smiled faintly at the relief that flooded the peroxide vampire's eyes.  "It's too…I just can't.  Not now."

There was a long silence and a lot of nasty glances.  But not a word.  Simple resignation.

Spike's relief remained steadfast.  There was nothing comparable to the way he looked at her now.  It was the most overpowering feeling she had ever experienced.  In a way that was nothing about power, she was on top of the world.

And it scared her for more than she was worth.

No words.  The gratitude in his gaze spoke for more than simple dialogue could contend.

And that was all she needed.  

Nothing else.

**To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Three Great Troubles****…**


	40. The Three Great Troubles

**A/N: ** Okay, some coolness.  Sang et Ivoire won Best Saga at Loves Last Glimpse, and Harbingers of Beatrice took home Best WIP at Shades of Grey.  Again, my endless thanks to those who nominated me.  

I've again managed to catch up with myself, thus I don't know when the next chapter will be out.  It shouldn't be more than a few days.  Until then, I leave you with this.

****

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**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

**The Three Great Troubles**

God, this was a filthy city.

The night hummed with life in a manner she reckoned she would miss if she ever decided to relocate.  While she prided herself in being a day person, it was the night that irrevocably drew her home.  The lights.  The sounds.  The people. The full of the experience.  Of course, Lockley's job allotted little room for preference.  If she was assigned to a night case, she would be there.  And that was the way it was.  The way it always had been.  The way she had been taught to follow the rules.  

She preferred working at daybreak.  It left open so many interesting opportunities for when the night fell.  That wasn't to say she ever accepted the dark's offer.  No; rather, it remained eternally to the side.  Her own personalized serpent in a tainted garden, offering her the fruit of her bearings that would provide ample occasion to leave.  

Ever since Angel had waltzed into her life, her hours had held nothing but work.   If not for cleaning up his messes then definitely for helping him clean up messes that she took pleasure in attributing to his kind.  

And even though she had always stood at the ready with an accusation curled on her tongue, the veracity behind his turn was one of the most unsettling truths she had ever endured.  She reckoned she still hadn't coped adequately; Angel's absence left a disquieting unbalance in her life.  She had no one to turn to when she sported a really hot lead; despite her words, she didn't trust those who worked for him nearly as much as she trusted the man himself.  Even with the appearance of another vampire to temporarily fill his shoes, even with the anthologies and text the faithful staff had at their disposal, she knew none of them like she knew Angel.

But Angel was gone.  Angel was out there right now, ripping the throat out of another unsuspecting victim whose face would be forgotten within a week.

The thought made her sick.

Enough had passed that Lockley felt comfortable in asserting her position as an authority in vampirism.  She had completed all the research that could possibly wield a hand in the opposition they were facing.  It was a grizzly task, but she had pulled through admirably.  The negatives that were reported back to the station of each victim post mortem were different enough not to warrant a connection—currently—but similarly connected in a way that clearly told her that Angel, Darla, and Drusilla were behind them.  

She even felt she could even pinpoint who had killed whom, a talent she neither liked nor wanted.  And yet, it was all for the job.  In the heartland of the job.  It was all in the execution and presentation.  Darla was customarily behind the quick ones.  Those reported back to have lasted no longer than seven minutes.  These were typically clean: a bite to the throat, a snap of the neck, no artistry.  Simple pleasure in what she indulged.  There was likewise no consistency in pattern from where she selected her kills.  They were sporadic at best.  Several reports had even reached their attention from suburbs that were a good distance from the city itself.  If anything, the vampire enjoyed employing curiosity.

Drusilla was a different story.  While she took no time to thoroughly think through those who accumulated on her list each night, there was a certain certified sloppiness in each life she took.  As though the death itself was by accident; killed before she was ready to bid them farewell.  Lockley suspected that the vampire had long since adapted the impatience Spike displayed so frequently.  Her selections were typically vagrants—those to coddle and coo and make time with before she tired of her game and moved on to the next conquest.  She had a hunting ground and had yet to extend its boundaries.  While this seemingly handed the LAPD the advantage, Kate knew well that Drusilla would only allow herself to be captured if she could turn it into a game.  Or, rather, if she knew Angelus would not object.

And Angel.  Angel.

Angelus.

Angelus was teasing them.  Calling out to them.  Tempting fate wherever he went.  His kills were dynamic and overstated.  It was as though some horror novel she had long ago committed to memory had suddenly leapt off the pages.  He loved the drama of it all.  A simple murder was made into a media circus with a few strings, and suddenly Joe Nobody had more publicity than he ever enjoyed in life.  It was his calling card.  He wanted her to know exactly where he was at all times.  He wanted Buffy to know where he was.  He wanted them to come after him.

Buffy had refused his offer.  While Lockley understood that anyone that had suffered through what she had suffered through deserved their measure of peace—and notably more, all things considered—that didn't excuse the understanding that innocents were losing their lives.   

It bothered the Slayer—that much was evident.  Asking her to assist tonight was too much, but similarly not enough.  This was what she was made for.  Everything Lockley had ever read noted as much.  And while what had happened was beyond tragic, that did not excuse those who would not return home tonight.

Personally, she blamed Spike.  The overprotective lover.  How fucking classic.

Kate shook her head.  Considering the steps they could have taken to prevent such atrocity was futile now.  On some primal level, she knew it was unfair to expect anything of a recently released torture victim—especially one that had suffered as much as Buffy had suffered.  No matter if said torture victim was stronger than any one person she had ever met.  

It was the plight of innocents that drove Lockley's conviction.  People walking the streets that knew nothing of the subhuman existence that thrived in the city.  Logically, she knew it was impossible to always be there to save everyone.  She couldn't demand as much from herself any more than she could ask her colleagues to give her what she needed.  One must have aspirations, and in the year and a half that she had known him, Lockley had made Angel and all his endeavors her business.  

If only she had killed him when she had the chance…

This was different.  She knew it was.  Her previous prejudice was unjustified, even if she would never admit it.  What he was now counteracted every truth she had experienced firsthand.  Angel, despite the great sin of immortality, had been a reliable associate and—if she wanted to be entirely honest—a good friend as well.  Perhaps it was that knowledge that had blinded her.  She didn't know anymore.  It was so difficult to judge.

They had split the designated hunting grounds in accordance with personal association.  Wesley and Gunn were patrolling the areas that claimed most of Drusilla's haunts.  Neither one of them were eager to add their previous friend and employer to their list of conquests, despite inevitably.  The former Watcher was as educated as any in Drusilla's killing patterns, thus the selection was appropriate.  At first, the men had seemed slightly apprehensive of Spike's reaction in the likelihood of his former's death, but he vocally didn't give a damn.  Not when she had hurt Buffy.  Not when she had **helped** hurt Buffy.

It was amazing.  Lockley had never seen anything like it; she never would have expected such blind devotion from a vampire.  Even in the short time she had witnessed between them, his love, concern, and wealth of gratitude had failed to vacate his eyes.  If there was another woman in the room—let alone the world—he did not know it.  

Amazing.  And Spike's only motivation for leaving her was the promise of repaying Angelus the full of what he stole.  What he ripped away from her.  Thus he was here.  Hunting somewhere.  Following his scent with the hopes of being led to his grandsire.  Lockley wondered briefly if Lindsey was with him, or if the lawyer had wandered in another direction.  For his sake, she hoped not.  There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the man could take care of himself, but Angelus was not to be underestimated.  She knew that from reading alone and had a feeling that there was much Spike had not shared.  Much Cordelia and—most intimately—Buffy knew better than they wanted to remember, much less confess.

That left Zack Wright searching alone for Darla, which was more than fine by him.  While nothing was methodically explained, there was palpably an unresolved vendetta between the demon hunter and his malevolent target that cancelled any reservations he might have in facing such a powerful foe by himself.  And though he never said anything, Lockley had sensed Spike's anxiety in allowing his friend to track her by himself. The man had notably trailed plenty of vamps and other various nasties prior to their acquaintance, thus it wasn't as though he couldn't take care of himself.

And here they were.  Three teams of self-proclaimed experts searching the slums of Los Angeles with the aspiration of stopping the deadliest trio to strike the undead world in documented history.

It was more than intimidating.  But Lockley would not be swayed.

She had endured this long enough.

When committing herself to the job, Kate found it utterly imperative to disassociate herself on a personal level from her surroundings.  She would utilize whatever came under her care if it could be wielded to her advantage.  Her travels tonight had led her to a wide alley where the stench of death and blood thickened the air like molasses.  It wasn't entirely different from her previous exploits; the setup, however, had too much of Angelus's personality for her liking.  

Lockley knew her limitations.  She was not a woman to see something because she wanted to rather than familiarizing herself with its tangibility.  She wanted to see Angelus dust.  She wanted this to come to an end more than anything.  Such to the point that she wasn't sure if her eyes were loyalists or conjuring truths out of something that wasn't really there.  

The past year—and especially—the last few weeks had reengaged her acquaintance with the depth of Angelus's meticulousness and—more precisely—the intimacy of his victims.  The centuries had seen so many.  A chambermaid doing her best to protect her child.  A lowly British deserter trying to find refuge from the invading French army.  Some text documented that he had met and dined with Napoleon Bonaparte, feeding him several strategies that would have ultimately led the army to victory had his advice been heeded.  The demon had feasted on more of history's dead than she cared to consider.  All of mankind was classified as beneath him, thus he took no shame when he killed.  A babe, a kindly old man, a widowed mother struggling to keep food on the table during times of need.  It simply didn't matter to him.

Blood was, after all, blood.

Therefore, Lockley knew better than to blink when she found herself gazing at the countenance of a girl—a child—looking back at her in motionless horror.  The gash at her throat bore relatively fresh marks, the skin beneath her fingernails ample enough evidence of her will to fight for herself; undoubtedly the casual negligence of being raised under the roof of Los Angeles's smog-filled sky.  Her face was young but dirty.  Her eyes dead, but wizened with knowledge that should not have known her.  She was one of the city's many casualties.  Another homeless body that no one would claim, much less miss.  

Even still, despite her bout with professionalism, Lockley felt her eyes well with tears.  She hated revealing herself so, but when responsibility fell harshly on her shoulders, she had nowhere else to turn.  A girl was dead and no one would care.  No one.  If anything else, she deserved someone to cry for her. Tonight, as she had most feared, it would be Lockley.  To cry for her.  To mourn the passing of someone she didn't know.  To reap her killer his justice.

Not two feet from the girl lay another.  A boy.  And another.  Two, then, three, and four and five.

He was here.  And he was trying to get someone's attention.

No.  That wasn't right.  He was trying to get **Buffy's** attention.  And he didn't care how long it took him.

Kate raised her head, expression stony.  Her tears were gone in the namesake of something more important.  More familiar.  She never cried, even when it was expected of her, and she would not give him the satisfaction of prolonging her grief now.  "I know you're here," she announced.  Breaking protocol, of course, but there was no sense in attempting to remain stealthy.  Angelus was well aware of her presence; she knew it.  "And I'm the only one coming."

The silence that fell dead after her invitation had the power to grasp the most of either of his reactions.  Full out quietude or an answer that would certainly leave her more than dead.  Lockley stilled to near flawlessness, gun coiled in grasp so tightly it might as well lease claim as an additional appendage.  She used its authority with much more frequency than her hands, it seemed.  It was the only part of her anyone deemed reasonable to adhere.

There was nothing.  Nothing.

Such could mean a number of things, and she wouldn't allow herself to feel any relief until she had an idea pertaining to his location.  Even if it did not present her with the advantage.  Kate hated being surprised; she just needed a place to shoot.

After all, happiness was a warm gun.

Lockley's eyes narrowed through the smog-laced darkness.  While her perception was unquestionable, there were truths to abide the laws of vampirism that far outshone her limitations.  And yet, nothing.  A calm, controlled breath rolled through her lips, and she indulged a few more quiet steps forward.

Tonight was the last.  She felt it.  No more children would find their blood on her hands.  Not again.  Not from this vampire.  One of them was going to die before the evening was over.

And damned if she didn't do her best to make sure it wasn't her.

Lockley expelled another breath, walking forward with cautious ease.  

"Angel," she said again slowly.  "It's over.  All of it.  Your girls are being hunted, and I have it on good authority that Wolfram and Hart has disclosed their position to remove your association from their list of…special projects."  That much was a lie; she was going on blind faith that Lindsey's former colleague—Lilah Morgan—would have it in her to see that their failed experiment be accurately disposed of.  "If Darla and Drusilla are not stopped tonight by your ex-best friends, then surely—"

An eerie pierce through the deafening silence that surrounded her.  The lazy drawl of his voice was enough to freeze her blood in her veins.  "I tell you, Katie," he said from nowhere.  Nowhere and everywhere.  Lockley whirled, eyes imploring desperately.  There was nothing.  Nothing.  "For someone who talks as much as you do, you really have nothing to say."

The blonde gnawed thoughtfully on her lower lip.  "I see.  You don't care.  Well, can't say that surprises.  But—"

"But nothing.  You're out here chasing me with your little gun.  I had really, really hoped you knew better than that."  Something crashed behind her and the voice changed directions.  And still nothing.  The thundering of her heart was becoming louder with every second, but she would not admit herself to fear.  Fear was for the weak, and she was never weak.  "It's kinda cute, when you think about it," Angelus continued from his post of Nowhere.  "Hero's Incorporated has divvied into teams.  I suppose Spike's hunting down Drusilla…or no.  No.  Take that back, Katie, I've changed my mind.  You see, Spike could never bring himself to stick it to a girl he once fucked.  You should appreciate that.  Guess that means the boy's coming after me, too.  Well, whaddya say?  The more the fucking merrier, right?"  He paused again thoughtfully, moving again too quickly and silently for her senses to keep up.  "How many are out tonight, hmmm?  Let's see.  They got you—the wannabe Slayer.  Spike, the fucker of Slayers.  Wesley, who doesn't know how to keep a Slayer.  Gunn, who wouldn't know a Slayer from his dead sister.  And the demon hunter.  The male Slayer."  Another pause and he seemed closer.  Lockley jumped and turned but there was nothing to answer her—nothing but the mocking ring of his endless chuckles.  "But where, sweetheart, do you think the real Slayer is?  Hmmm?  Really, after all we shared; I thought she'd be keen on giving me messages herself instead of sending lackeys.  Is that what you are, Katie?  A lackey?  I gotta tell you, you're not a very good one.  I mean—come on—a gun?  Scary business there.  A gun."  Closer still.  God, she could almost feel his breath on her throat.  "Whaddya gonna do, Officer?  Arrest me?  I'm sure that'll fly downtown.  The boys'll take one look at you and the scrapings of your former career and kick you out before letting you clean out your desk.  You've been waiting to pin something on me for over a year, and you haven't been very quiet about it.  This to me rings as a little…oh say…"

Something suddenly leapt from the darkness, grasping her wrist and twisting her arm until she was chest-to-chest with an anchor of steel, losing herself in endless, soulless eyes that knew no mercy.  Her gun fell haphazardly to the ground and he kicked it away before the thought could even encourage her to retrieve it.  His smile was thin and nasty.  And she knew without having to know anything at all that she had lost.

She had lost.

She had lost without even putting up a fight.  Without seeing.  Without thinking.  Without being able to save the girl he would murder next.

Because it was her.

**"Desperate,"** he breathed into her ear.

And again to the victor goes the spoils.  Twice she had felt Angel's fangs pierce her throat.  Twice she had mentally slapped herself for lack of foresight.  Twice she had wanted to scream and writhe and put up something of a struggle.  To go down as she was meant to go down.  To not be another face that he added to his list of kills.

The first time had been to save her.

This time was to watch her die.

There would be no leeway for clemency.  None.

Without ever having started, Lockley fell to the pavement, and it was over.

*~*~*

The scent of blood coated the air so thick that Spike thought even he might choke from the weight of it.  He had not thought himself too far behind the officer, but her scent had a means of scattering to its content when he allowed his guard to drop.  It was more than evident that she had spent a great deal of time out here.  Wandering these alleyways and garbage heaps in search of her personal sanctuary.  She wanted Angel dead as much as he did—and despite the growing threat of Darla and Drusilla—he reckoned it was his blood she craved above all others.

No small wonder why.  From what he gathered, Angel had made her trust him before revealing what he was.  That was liable to do it in any circumstance.  

Truthfully, the platinum vampire had not intended to follow Lockley this far.  As per their agreement, he would ascertain the condition of a segment of Angelus's hunting grounds.  He had—well, sort of.  He had walked through, noted instantly that his grandsire was nowhere within proximity, and left immediately thereafter to seek out the irate blonde that he had grown to loath beyond compare since coming into her acquaintance.  If Angelus realized that Buffy was not a part of their outing, he would likely focus on the next best thing.

Namely a lovely blonde with strength, determination, and an attitude.

Lockley was walking around with a proverbial 'Come Bite Me' stamp on her forehead. 

Evidently, Lindsey McDonald agreed, for he picked up his scent within seconds of finding the man himself.  He had also wandered from his designated patrolling area, and while they eyed each other wearily; they made no move to challenge the other's status or burden of concern.  It was more than evident without that much.

"Is he near?" the lawyer asked.

Spike inhaled deeply and nodded.  "Oh yeah," he said.  "Very close.  So's the bird."

"There's blood."

"Quite a bit.  'S not all the same though, mate."

"Meaning…?"

"Meanin' Peaches seems to have spurned himself a collection."  There was no doubt of that; the vampire was picking up too many varieties in blood to all be accredited to the same person.  He wasn't sure he could identify Kate's scent on such a brief acquaintance, and for her sake, he hoped not.  But there was so much.  Blood spilt to lure them here.  Angelus had known they were coming.

"Angel's developed a serial killer syndrome?"  Lindsey arched a skeptical brow.  "Collecting trophies, alluring his victims to his lair?  That doesn't sound like him."

Precisely what he had been thinking, but he didn't reveal as much through more than simple words.

"I don' think so, either."  Spike paused thoughtfully.  "'S **not** like him.  Peaches doesn' change habit.  His style might alter a li'l over the passin' decades, but 'e's in essence the same ponce he was the day after he was sired.  No…'f he's keepin' his goodies after he drains 'em…'s to make sure that someone like—oh say—us, knows where to come lookin'."

More precisely, Buffy.

Angel was trying to entice Buffy out of her asylum.

The thought made him raw with hatred. 

"You think she's out here?" McDonald asked softly.

Spike's head reeled up.  "Buffy?"

"No.  Detective Lockley."  The lawyer rolled his eyes, though the shade behind him was dancing with almost mischievous respect, if such a thing could exist.  "Firstly, I think by now you and Buffy are likely tied enough to know when the other sneezes, let alone goes on missions like this.  Secondly—"

"Vamps don' sneeze."

Lindsey frowned.  "Really?"

There was a moment of contemplation.  "Don' reckon so."  He allowed an obligatory pause before waving him onward.  "Secondly…?"   

"Oh.  Right.  Secondly, do you ever stop thinking about her?"

Spike shook his head longingly.  "Can't afford to, mate.  Not now."

A long beat passed between them—the air hanging in anticipation of the inevitable break.  They were walking leisurely, if not cautiously.  Every step drew them closer to an area of reason neither particularly wished to explore.  The peroxide vampire was on the hunt for his grandsire, no doubt, but if he could avoid further casualties, all the better.

Not that he gave two licks about Kate Lockley, but he knew Buffy did.

Buffy did.

"Without pissing you off," Lindsey said a minute later, "can I tell you how impressed I am?"

The Cockney arched a brow in his direction but said nothing.

"I know that you and yours aren't thrilled with the prospect of having been captured on tape when you weren't at your best.  And yes, while I did make a good study of what the cameras caught, I didn't mean it out of perversion or anything that could be remotely construed as threatening."  McDonald heaved a sigh, the look in his eyes betraying a desire to finish his thought while conflicting with the almost instant regret that he had brought the topic up in the first place.  "When Buffy was first brought to Wolfram and Hart, I was unsure of my place.  I knew I didn't like what we had done.  There toward the end, I didn't like much of anything."

"'Cept Darla," Spike obligingly observed.

"Yes.  Except Darla."  Lindsey's gaze darkened.  "Not anymore."

The vampire entertained a wry grin, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting up without thought.  "Bird found your off button, eh?"

"Something like that."  The lawyer shook his head wearily.  "I don't know what it was.  I was enamored with her in the beginning.  I can't see why now.  She's a monster."

"Bloody right."

An uncomfortable silence settled for an indeterminable amount of time.  The span between a few seconds and forever was on the indefinite redefinition list—every now and then, it changed meaning altogether.  "Anyway," Lindsey continued.  "What I was getting at…the way you were with her when she was their prisoner.  That impressed me.  You have more stamina than I would've thought, just reading your history."

There was a cold pause.  "'F you're referrin' to what I think—"    

"No.  No!  God, no.  I…that was different."  McDonald's hands came up in semblance of peace.  "I'm not some creepy old man that sits and gets off by watching you get your girlfriend—"

"Finish that sentence, an' I'll shove your still-beatin' heart down your throat."

"You're not the easiest man to pay compliment to, you know that?"

"Yeh, well, you bloody suck at givin' 'em."  

There was no contesting that.  In his line of business, Lindsey was as accustomed to delivering heartfelt sentiment as he was receiving it.  Pitiable excuse, of course, but some things were more valuable than others.

"I'm just saying," he continued a minute later, "that I think you did good.  As good as could be expected.  And I'm…I'm sorry for not helping before I did." 

Spike glanced up, malice abandoning his eyes.  The men shared a long look of reason before acquiescing their similar positions with a nod.  There was nothing else to put on the table.  But oddly, that was enough.

And that was it for several seconds.  Several long, tension filled seconds.  Until the peroxide vampire caught a whiff of what he had been waiting for and shot an arm up to keep the lawyer from indulging one more step.  He paused for what seemed like an eternity to analyze the difference in scents—then his eyes widened with the worst form of understanding.

"'S Kate."

They found her on her back, eyes closed and a hand draped over her stomach.  The twin puncture marks in her throat left little to the imagination.  With near reverence, Spike and Lindsey knelt beside her, studying her with veneration that commanded them, despite their better senses.  The peroxide vampire would have liked to made claim in regretting every ill word that had happened between them, but he could not.  But it wasn't right: looking at her like that.  Despite her human frailty, she was a tower of strength where it mattered the most.

The look flooding McDonald's eyes read more of the same.  "How long has she been here?" he asked, almost hoarse.

Spike shook his head.  "A few minutes.  The place reeks of Peaches.  'E's still here somewhere."  He tossed a glance over his shoulder, biting back a grimace.  "An' 'e has quite a build-up of take-out."

Lindsey followed his gaze briefly, turning his attention back to Lockley in seconds.  With instinctual need, his hand found her throat, absently searching for where her pulse should be.  He felt his fingers dampen in the steady flow of blood from her moistened flesh, but distinctly under the punctuated rhythm of her death, a very faint detection of a pulse thrummed through her body.  

Spike must have realized at virtually the same time, for their eyes met with anticipation.  

"She's not dead."

"Not yet, anyway," the vampire agreed.  "You better toddle off to a hospital or what all.  Get her a blood transfusion.  Peaches took enough to kill her; we jus' got here in time."

"Two for two, eh?"

Spike gave him a look.

"Right.  Bad time for jokes."

"Bad **joke** altogether, mate."

"That too."  Lindsey delicately lifted Kate into his arms, fishing out his cell to secure an ambulance in their perimeter as soon as possible.  "I'm gonna have to get to a crowded area," he said once finished, tossing the vampire the phone.  "You all right by yourself?"

"Gettin' to a crowded area doesn' matter one bloody bit to Angel."

"I know."  He was already walking away.  "But it matters to me."

Spike watched him disappear into the shadows and reemerge in a mainstream of traffic and noise.  He suspected he should be annoyed at the thoughtless abandonment—that was the vampire thing to do.  Grumble his dissatisfaction at displays of humanitarianism and do his best to bollix up the various good deeds he fell witness to.  And yet, he couldn't bear the thought.  One step after another.  Buffy had brought him this far; everything else was of his own doing.

He wanted to believe that it was a side effect of working with Angel Investigations more intimately than he had intended upon arrival.  But the truth was, given the degrees of separation between what he had once been and what he had become, he found himself favoring what he used to hate.  And while that spurned more than its fair share of conflicting emotions concerning his questionable status in life, he feared he wouldn't change anything.

To go back to what he had once been meant to forfeit everything being the other had given him.  Acceptance.  Love.  Respect.  Friendship.  

Buffy.  His kinship with Zack Wright and Cordelia.  His adoration, however secreted, for Rosalie.  Everything.

God, he was such a wanker.

For now, though, his attentions could not afford to be divided.  Angelus was still out here.  His intrusive presence pressed upon every raw nerve it could hope to touch.  So much had passed that Spike reckoned attributing his manifest hatred toward his grandsire to anything had long tempered his senses.  Now there was nothing.  Abhorrence so raw that it surpassed anything and everything he had once thought possible.  

Every time he allowed his thoughts to travel along the wayside of his blood ties, he saw Buffy's pain-filled eyes.  He felt the abrasions that laced her skin.  He heard her desperation in her plea not to be left alone.  He tasted her blood in his mouth and felt her tears against his cheek.  He smelled the fragrant of wilted vanilla in her dirtied hair.  And there was nothing surmountable to that.  No plateau to reach.  

And Angelus was the reason.

Spike puffed furiously at his cigarette before stamping it out.  He turned in the direction that reeked of the concentrated essence attributed to his grandsire and sneered, "There's no use tryin' to sneak up on me, Peaches.  Unless you're not man enough to come out 'ere an' get what you've got comin' to you."

As he suspected, that was all it took.  They had always been above the dealings of cat-and-mouse.  Such was the way with family.

"If what's coming to me arrives in the package of a small, blonde, and slightly dead Slayer, well then, sign me up."  

There he was.  Basking in shadows.  Enjoying his stereotype.  Light from a nearby streetlamp reflected luminously off his countenance.  His eyes were dancing with dangerous humor, but the smile that so itched his lips was refused admittance.  Beneath the calm façade, Spike read fury that could only match his own.  The full contempt of Angelus; everything that marked the full of his patience.  What either vampire had been waiting to do for over a century.

The Cockney smiled ironically.  "Well, we thought we'd try to make it a fair fight, mate.  You know as well as any that she'd kick your sorry ass back to bloody Timbuktu 'f she took you on herself."

"I gotta say, I do like your definition of 'fair fight.'" The other cocked his head pensively.  "After all, the last time you bested me was…oh right…never."

Spike shrugged, thoroughly unworried.  "I was jus' goin' easy on you."

"I'm sure."

"Let's jus' say, 'm not the one that's bloody left two of your intendeds somethin' a li'l less than dead."  His brows perked showily.  "Not that 'm complainin'.  'F you're slippin' up, mate, all the better for me.  I jus' won' get to enjoy killin' you as long as I had anticipated." 

The elder vampire's eyes sparkled.  "Hmmm.  Yes.  That was rather sloppy of me, wasn't it?"  His smile became nasty with easy seconds.  "You'd think maybe I had something planned."

"You'd also think you were bluffin'."

He offered a lazy shrug.  "Perhaps.  Though really, I gotta say, for a childe of ours, Buffy isn't living up to par, is she?  I really thought she'd've staked you good and dead for turning her into what you turned her into.  Talk about disappointing."  He stepped forward perilously.  "Whaddya think?  Think I softened her up well enough for you?"

That was it.  The proverbial breaking point.  Spike's eyes flared and his body had lunged forward before his brain could stamp the impulse with a warranty of approval.  In a tumble, he sent them both to the ground.  His eyes were clouded with rage, his fists and fangs helpless servants to quench an undying thirst that knew no control.  It lasted only seconds, but it felt like forever.  Hands grasping and clawing at whatever flesh he could find.  His bumpies had surfaced and he was snarling beyond the realm of his self-made perseverance.  There was nothing if he couldn't end it now.  Nothing.    

The peroxide Cockney didn't realize his attack had ceased fully until he felt his back slam against a brick siding.  Then Angelus was advancing, all amusement drawn from his expression.  Unlike his grandchilde, the elder vampire had refrained from emerging into full demonhood.  His human features remained perfectly in tact—a tactic he had employed more since his return as an active killer for the full of effect.  He wanted to make it known to everyone that as far as he was considered, demon and man were one of a kind.  It was lame poetic notion, but the thought was not wasted on Spike.  Instead, he felt another incursion of vehemence and made to lash out again, but found himself pinned to the wall before any such move could be executed.

"See, that's where you were always lacking," Angelus berated softly, shaking his head.  "Never thinking before acting.  I swear, there are times I doubt my paternity.  There's no way you could have ever survived as one of mine."

"Yeh, well…" Spike roared and shoved him away, whirling into the open as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "You never made a good Yoda."

Angelus chuckled humorlessly, moving to circle him.  "So, what is it you're looking to do?  Hmmm?  Honestly, boy, if you're looking for a fight, I can't say you've come to the wrong place.  I seem to recall you once complaining about choosing brawls you knew you could win.  Well, good for you.  Practicing what you preach.  Gotta admire spunk.  Very romantic, and all the nauseating sentiment that comes with it." His head slanted a fraction, eyes twinkling.  "But here's the thing, Spikey… Buffy can't stand being coddled.  And she doesn't particularly like submissive partners.  From the way you were bellowing when you thought she was dead…really, it was moving.  Darla and I had a good laugh at that.  Can't say Dru was too happy, but really, when is she ever?"  

The younger vampire was staunch and glaring.  There was nothing to say.

"You think Buffy'll be as responsive to you as she was for me?" The darker one continued.  "I gotta tell yeah, I can't imagine touching her dead.  She was interesting enough when she was warm and had something of value to lose.  Seems you can't help but take my hand-me-downs.  I used up all her goodies.  Her virginity, her innocence, and her life.  And what do you get?  The sniveling runt that's left over.  Used, abused, and desperate.  Just the way you like 'em.  But, as memory serves, you also have a problem with sharing."  He leered forward nastily.  "Just keep that in mind when you touch her, okay?  She **screamed** for me."

There was no such thing as fury.  No such thing as hatred.  No such thing as any pure emotion anyone had ever claimed right to experience.  In a blink, Spike rewrote them all.  Never before had he felt something replace him whole and leave nothing but a shell of action in his boots.  He had moved passed casual acceptance and was now bent on unadulterated retribution.  As though the spirit of the devil could arise fully within one individual.  It wasn't vampire or man that attacked then; it was a force that had never before shown face on earth.  He felt nothing but the rage encouraging him forward.  Felt not the skin beneath his fingernails, the flesh at his fangs, the force of the body that so presumptuously blocked his from ridding the world once and for all of such a creature.  He didn't even feel the force of the foundation behind him or the influence of the hand at his throat.  He was still struggling.  Still snarling and clawing. Removed from himself to a degree of bordering the line of self-recognition to a point of threatening his own existence.

Clarity then.  Something pointy was pressing into his chest.  In a sweeping wave, reality settled around him.

"…face it, boy," Angelus was saying.  The scent of the elder's blood flavored the air.  That was enough, Spike reckoned.  If he was going to die, he damn well would die at the pinnacle of battle.  "You never were or ever could be half the vampire I am."

Something warm touched the pit of cold that had swarmed his insides and his skin rippled with recognition.  Her scent hit him a second too late, and before he knew what was happening, the intrusive presence against him was forced away.  He caught a glimpse of shimmering blonde hair and the most beautiful pair of determined green eyes he had ever had the privilege to see.

"He's a thousand times the man you are," Buffy was saying indignantly, swinging a roundhouse kick to her favor.  Spike watched, dumbfound, as Angelus was sent clear to the opposite end of the alley, collapsing without clemency.  

He watched her with admiration and love that knew no other force.

Then the world came sweeping back.  And he remembered his status, and her promise.

"What the soddin' hell are you doin'?" 

Buffy tossed him a wry glance.  "Saving your ass, do you mind?"

There was something so wholly familiar about that statement.  It warmed his insides until he reminded himself that he was angry with her and her presumptions. "I don' bloody believe this…"

A frown graced her beautiful face and she shrugged.  "Well, yeah, the pun was lame, but I'm recently undead girl.  Cut me some slack."

He stared at her for a long, dumbfound moment.  "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"I thought we just covered that."  She turned her attention around, back to Angelus.  "If you'll excuse me."

Oh no.  She wasn't about to get away that easily.  

And hell if he let Angelus near her again.

"Well, well," the elder demon drawled.  "Look what we have here.  I knew Spikey couldn't keep you cooped up for long.  I mean, come on, Buff.  After everything we've shared?  It was only a matter of time before you came running home to Daddy."

That was all it took.  For the first time since her convergence, the platinum vampire witnessed the Slayer's full grasp of her demonhood as the game face that condemned all of their kind to the wrong end of a stake burst through with unmistakable clarity.  Then she was off, running at her killer in artistic detail of every bit of the rage he had felt only minutes before.  He watched Angelus's arms clasp around her and felt his own fury spark to life again.  

When he approached, however, the sight he bore witness to was too gratifying to interrupt, even for the namesake of his own ire.  Buffy had straddled the elder vampire at the waist and was delivering a series of sobbing punches to his face.  Battering him nearly unrecognizable as her own walls crumbled and she delivered back every hurt, every pain, every tear in ways that would never repay the debt caused against him.  It was satisfaction beyond satisfaction.  It was what she was owed.  What Angelus deserved.

But there was something else.  Something waiting under the pain.

If she continued like this, she would end up destroying herself along with him.  Spike didn't know how he knew it, but he did.  He did.  It was scrupulously obvious with every barren smack that filled the never-silent Los Angeles night.  Thus, he did what he had to.  He mounted her from behind, encasing her small, lithe form in his embrace as he dragged her back to herself.  The sobs wracking her body had the power to kill him.  Completely, wholly, without judgment.  He battled her for dominance and knew she was not herself when she granted it, twisting in his arms to bury her face in his shoulder.  He held her to him as she released what she had to, as she sobbed her bearings and gave him the weight of her burden.  

And yet, while he consoled her, Spike kept his gaze steadfast on Angelus, watching in contempt as he weakly stumbled to his feet.  A basking glow of defeated humiliation.  There were bruises, cuts, and blood.  Never had he seen his grandsire wear a look of that regard, and he couldn't help but savor what fate had dealt him.

But he couldn't finish him off now.  Not now.  Buffy was his priority, and she was hurting.  He wouldn't leave her for anything.

"Leave," he said lowly.  "Scamper off before I set her loose on you again, an' we both finish you off."

The words made his stomach clench.  He hated the thought of letting Angelus walk.  But it was temporary.  Only temporary.  A leading clause to follow to the point where he would ultimately know dust.

Facing him now was foolish.  Too soon.  

After satisfied that they were alone, Spike turned his attention fully to Buffy, lifting her face to his.  She had melted back into her human features—the existence she knew but could not return to, and the sight of her breakdown pulled him rightly apart.

And yet, despite everything, he couldn't allow himself to forget that he was angry with her.  

"You promised me," he whispered.

Buffy gazed at him with tear-filled eyes, large and puzzled.  "What?"

"You promised me you wouldn't come after 'im."  He hated it that his emotion reached his voice with such simplicity, but in these matters, he couldn't help himself.  She was stronger now than she had ever been before, and he had never been more afraid for her.  "I could've…God, I could've lost you."

Little by little, her gaze was clearing.  Signs of her return to herself.  He felt his courage growing along with it. "Spike—"

"Why?"

"Why…?"

"Why would you…" He broke off.  "I could've—"

"Cordy…" She was panting harshly against him, clutching at his shoulders as though seeking her own stability.  "Cordy had a vision. She saw you.  She saw you and I had to come."

He stared at her.  "Cordelia…had a vision."

"She does that, apparently."

"I bloody well know she does that."  That was it.  Something primitive snapped.  Whatever hold she claimed released him with more of the same, and he allowed his worry and grief to intermingle with the more fallible anger.  Anger was good.  He knew anger.  He had lived with anger for a good, long time.  He knew how to deal with it.  "But you promised me you wouldn't do this.  You bloody well **promised** me!  You coulda been killed!"

Buffy's eyes widened, the look of indignation wide enough to replace any hint of grief that had been so palpable a minute before.  "Oh, and what," she retorted.  "You couldn't?  Because when I came up here, it kinda looked like you were about to bite the dust."

He snickered dismissively, turning away from her.  "I can handle myself."

"You don't—"

In a second, he had whirled back to her, eyes blazing.  "You have any sodding idea what I went through?" he barked.  "Every day, worryin' that I wasn' goin' fast enough.  That you wouldn't be there when I came for you.  That I'd be too fucking late an' you…that I'd lose you without…without gettin' to even tell…" He trailed off helplessly, the anger in his face losing to the more strenuous heartache.  Everything experienced over a full of so many weeks.  "You can't bloody well feed me empty promises, pet.  I can't stand it."

"Don't."

The word came out with such brunt force that it shook him to a second awakening.  "What?"

"Don't even, you fucking presumptuous bastard."  

"I—"

"Or actually, do it.  Come on.  I wanna hear it.  I want to hear you say that you wouldn't have done the exact same thing, promises be damned!"  She took a step forward boldly, eyes flaring.  "I want you to tell me you wouldn't have bolted out of the lobby with Hell at your heels.  Come on, Spike.  Tell me.  Tell me you wouldn't have come for me.  Go on.  Tell me I was wrong in worrying about you.  I want to fucking hear it!"

He stared at her for a long, incredulous minute, unknowing what to say.

Finally, he resorted with a weak, "That's different."

"Oh really?  How?"

"'Cause I'd cross Hell for you an' back.  I've already made it with the bloody Rubicon.  Wha's a li'l Hell in the face of that?"

"And you think I wouldn't?"

"No."

Her eyes widened.  "What?  Why not?  What makes you so fucking above it all?"

Horrified, he blurted the first thing that came to mind.  "What?  I love you, that's what."  

As if it held grounds above what they were arguing over.  Their argument that was anything but an argument.  Voices raised out of fear and understanding.  All cards on the table.  No going back from here.

Buffy could have tripped over herself, but she didn't.  Instead, she nodded her assent.  "Oh yeah?" she retorted.  "Well, get a load of this.  I love you, too."

There it was; the one thing that could render him speechless.  Spike stared at her with wondrous awe, unknowing whether or not it was appropriate enough to plead her words were the truth.  She looked truthful.  She looked wonderful.  Full, frustrated eyes that were still wracking the realities of her existence.  His Buffy.  The epitome of strength.

She loved him.

"So there," she was saying hotly.  "You see, we're even.  We're—"

But she didn't finish.  Couldn't.

Spike had her pressed against the nearest wall in seconds, mouth ravaging at hers.  Where the tears had come from, he knew not.  Only that they had worked themselves into a frenzy of sobs and kisses.  He tasted her fully, openly, giving no want for restraint.  His hands explored her body with liberation that knew no master.  And then she was battling him.  Warring with his tongue for dominance that neither truly wanted nor claimed.  He felt her hands pulling at his shoulders, combing through his hair, searing his skin with the touch of her own.  The taste of her had him drunk, but he had not indulged nearly enough.

He pulled away; panting, resting his forehead against hers, anger having vanished.  "I can't," he whimpered.

Buffy's eyes widened in protest.  "Can't?"

"Tell you.  Tell you that I wouldn't have come."  He leaned forward to taste her lips, nibbling lightly and coaxing a moan into his mouth.  "I'll always—"

"I know."

She attacked his mouth again, pulling him as tightly into her as possible.  Her hands explored the coarse stability of him, legs entwining around his waist, allowing him to press her as far into the wall as any mortal limitations would allow.  She would have thought it raining for the moisture on her face.  Tears produced out of revelation; not fear, not anxiety, but the sheer bliss of being.  His lips finally abandoned hers, taking chart down her neck, nibbling wantonly at her tender skin, his own hands rubbing encouraging circles into her thighs.  

"Oh God," she heard herself whimper.

A calming chuckle sounded at her throat.  "You have no bloody idea."

Buffy offered him a tender smile, even if he wasn't looking, and thrust herself against the hardness that sought her center.  A resounding growl answered her call, and then they were rubbing together.  Denim against denim.  She wondered if her jeans were soaked thorough and reckoned it better to relieve his tension before he ruined his own trousers.  And yet, the molding of their bodies together, clothes be damned, was too delicious to interrupt.   

His hands were becoming much more bold.  One hand found her breast and was exciting a nipple through layers of separation.  The other had her grasped from behind, arching her into his movements so she could feel the fullness of him, unashamed.  His mouth was working up her throat again, seizing her lips without mercy.  

That was it.  No more Miss Nice Slayer.  Buffy slid her own attentions to his fly.  Zip-ups today.  How many variations in trousers did he enjoy?  She brushed the thought aside for its futility and yanked the zipper down, taking his erection into her hold and pumping him once, twice, and—

He took her wrist in his own hand, coaxing her attentions away.  He spoke only one word, but it was the only word he needed to say.

"No."

Buffy gasped her protest, astonishment and the smacking bite of rejection filling her eyes.  It only lasted a second; she caught his gaze, caught the unguarded craving there.  The desire that he had attempted to keep from her with little success now shone for all its agonizing veracity.  If ever there were any doubt on how much he wanted her, she would look no further than the brightness of his regard.

But Spike had caught her digression, and remorse inevitably followed.

"Look at me," he demanded, jolting her chin upward.  She hadn't even realized that she had averted her eyes until she felt herself pierced with an ocean of compassionate blue.  "You have no idea how much I want you.  How **long** I've wanted you.  Since the firs' time I saw you, I think.  Too bloody stupid to admit it at the time, but it was there.  An' the craving's only gotten worse over the years.  I want you so much I can't fuckin' see straight.  'S a bloody miracle I haven't gone cross-eyed."

The Slayer worried a lip, sensing a 'but.'  So, she provided it for him.  "But…?"

"But nothin'."  He offered a lopsided grin.  "I jus' love you too much to take you in some alley.  Like this.  'S not right.  Not right for you. I might not be above it, Buffy, but you are.  You deserve so much more than what I—"

The notion that he had stopped to even care touched her heart.  Where cold had once resided, warmth flooded, kicking the cold out for good.  With a tender smile, she cupped his cheek and guided his mouth to hers.  This kiss was leisured intimacy.  Tasting nibbles that promised a world for tomorrow.  

"You're above it, Spike."

He returned her smile poignantly.  "'m glad you think so."

"I know so."  With a sigh she leaned forward, disengaging her legs from abound his waist and watching with flustered embarrassment as he tucked himself back into his jeans.  

There was nothing for a long, disquieting moment.

Buffy hazarded a glance back to him.  "So…you wanna go back to the hotel?"

"God, I thought you'd never ask."

It was a miracle they made it back as quickly as they did.  Night or day, Los Angeles was a city that did not allot for easy travel.  And given newfound liberation, Spike found it very difficult to school his hands to obedience.  As though he feared she would melt away and everything would be a dream.  That her pledge of love be found nothing more than a wistful aspiration of wanting.  

However, despite his more primal desires, he did not pet her.  Did not corner her.  When he touched her, it was to stroke her cheek in subtle hint of his affection.  To kiss her temple or take her hand into his own.  He refused to barrage her with the fullness of his desire.  Her vow of love was more than he ever thought he would receive, but he knew—he knew—that the words could not begin to express the depth of his own regard.  He feared frightening her with the wealth of every inexpressible feeling that coursed through his system, and that he would not allow.

When they were before the Hyperion, it was her hand that sought his.  Her smile that drove them onward.  

She gave him so much.

Neither could have anticipated what awaited them at the door.

In truth, it had bordered simplicity on how quickly memories of the past were dismissed.  Even the more recent past, the same lurking behind every doorway that they had not yet explored.  And yet, despite reason or readiness, there she was.  A figure looming from the ever-persistent shadow of home.  Standing staunch in the center of the lobby with a notably perplexed and even untrusting Cordelia at her side.  Golden hair and a face unforgettable, despite however cleanly they had discharged her memory.  How cleanly they had discharged everyone's memory.

But it was there.  All there.  Her eyes lit up when she saw the Slayer in the doorway, and the smile that pressed against her features could not be denied in meaning.

Spike was ready when Buffy gripped his hand tighter.  On some basic level, he had always known it was only a matter of time.

And yet.  Now.  Not now.  Not when everything was on the way of getting so good.

Reality came back now.  

"Buffy," Cordelia said uncertainly.  "Hey.  I didn't know what to do.  She claims to be a friend of yours.  Is—"

"It's fine," replied the Slayer.  Then her eyes leveled with warmth and she allowed the breath she had been holding to pass.  "Hello, Tara."

To be continued in Chapter Forty: _Deliverance_… 


	41. Deliverance

**A/N: ** Much thanks to Kimmie for her assistance in certain aspects of this chapter.  Don't know where I'd be without you.

Harbingers of Beatrice has also been nominated once more at Love's Last Glimpse because people are lovely and very nice to me.  It's up for Best Saga, Best Angst, Best Romance, and Best Crossover.  I'm also up for Best Author…again because people are lovely and very nice to me.  My sincere thanks for the nominations.  

****

****

**Chapter Forty**

**Deliverance**

A long, unsettling silence filled the lobby, and Tara found herself bombarded with an ocean of incredulous stares.  She offered a nervous smile when the tension failed to wane and shifted uncomfortably, casting a shy glance to the ground.  "Was it something I said?"

In minutes, the population of the lobby had nearly doubled.  A frustrated Zack Wright had piled inward just seconds following the two vampires with Gunn and Wesley not far behind.  While the demon hunter had enjoyed absolutely no success, the other men appeared a little worse for the wear.  They related a brief account of finding Drusilla feeding on some co-ed and though they had successfully intervened, the crazed vampiress had averted whatever they threw at her before seemingly leaping into the night without a trace.

Spike had shrugged.  "That sounds like Dru.  She has about a thousand an' a half tricks up her sleeve that she never shared with me.  'S one of the only ways we got out of Prague not deader than usual."

Whatever had occurred, though, fell short to the relatively unknown guest that stood apprehensively in the heart of the lobby.  They had suffered through several excruciating introductions that, naturally, entailed detailing the revelation in Willow's life following Oz's departure.  (Everyone decided to ignore Cordelia's observant, "I always knew there was something weird about that girl…aside the witch thing, and all.")

Then Tara had related while she was with them and not in England, and everyone fell to a depressingly deep silence.

"Could you…" Buffy began, hand commanding Spike's in a death grip that she wasn't aware of.  It didn't matter; he hardly tried to pull away.  "Could you…go over that again?"

The nervous blonde shrugged helplessly.  "Th-there's really n-not much to go over," she explained uncertainly.  "W-Willow told me how to do it.  We w-went over it several times.  She even told me how t-to pr-pronounce some of the h-harder words." 

"Why now?" Cordelia asked softly.  "Why not when this first started?  Why not anytime before now?"

"Glory," Tara replied with a weak smile.  "We were afraid… oh, she hasn't found us."  The Witch cast a quick glance to the Slayer, who relaxed visibly at the reassurance.  "B-but if she did, Willow's the one who could w-ward her off.  Well, she'd…she'd be better than m-me.  S-she's really…she's…" In desperation, she turned to Buffy fully.  "She told me I could do this.  She said I was…she just said I could do it."

There was nothing but a numb nod.  "I know you can.  Wills did it before she had any practice."  

"Just for clarification," Wright interrupted sharply, "what exactly are we talking about?  Considering?  Because as of right now, not really liking what I'm hearing."

Spike drew in a tight breath and cast his friend a skeptical glance.  "Don' you get it?" he retorted, embitterment flashing within his eyes.  "They want Peaches back.  An' now Glinda has a way.  Innit neat?  Got everythin' right worked out, they do."

The edge in his voice drew Buffy's immediate attention, and she pivoted to him with sharp knowledge of his assumption.  "Spike—"

"No, no. 'S fine.  I mean, who wouldn't want the prat back?  He jus' tortured the livin' _life _outta you.  Real keeper, that one.  Such a prince.  My bloody hero."  The peroxide vampire turned away with disgust, his hold on her breaking without forethought.  "Oh, but I forgot, 's not really him at all, is it?  Really, with all the bloody bouncin' he does, 's no small wonder I get myself all turned around.  I mean—"

"You're not really considering this, are you?" Wright demanded, glancing sharply to Buffy.  

And at that, there was no means to reply.  Nothing but a slackjawed façade of unquestionable confusion.  "I…I…" She looked helplessly at Spike, her heart breaking at the expression firing his beautifully agonized features.  "I…"

"Angel is our friend," Wesley offered softly.

_"Was_ our friend," Gunn added, tone neutral.  "Really, after all that's happened, I'm not sure what—"

Cordelia tossed him a sharp glance.  "Angel's our friend," she reiterated.  "And if there's a way to get him back, we'll take it.  Haven't we said this is what we want from the beginning?"

Spike raised his hand with a sardonic smile.  "I haven't."

"Neither have I," Wright agreed, face contorted in a contemptuous sneer.

The Seer sighed heavily, shaking her head.  "It's not like it's that simple, all right?  We're not picking lotto numbers, here.  He's our—"

"Friend.  Yeah.  I get it."  Zack cast her a dirty look.  "Sorry if I still fail to see where it's not simple.  Angelus is a killer.  End of story."

"Yeah," Gunn agreed, nodding rhetorically.  "And, last time I checked, so's that myelin-deprived whitey."  He clinched the thought with a broad gesture to Spike, whose brows arched appraisingly.  "As a matter of fact, that one doesn't have a soul.  Hell, he doesn't even have a _chip _anymore."

Buffy blinked, turning to him with wide eyes.  "You don't?"

"No," he growled.  "I don'.  Lindsey an' the wankers at Wolfram an' Hart took it out when I was actin' like the Order's bitch.  Couldn't rightly hunt with a bug-zapper in my noggin, now could I?"  His gaze implored hers hotly for several long seconds, the look on her face hardly passing for encouraging.  When she failed to summon words in retaliation, he bristled and turned away.  "Bloody typical."

The blank expression clouding Tara's features hardly rang as heartening, either.  She took an exaggerated step away, nibbling on her lip in astonished concern.  "Y-you…your ch-chip is out?"

Spike favored her with a particularly menacing glare.  He had always had a soft spot for the Witch but such fell to the wayside of consideration if she actually thought he was a danger anymore.  He _should _have been, of course.  There was no true reason to believe he wasn't except for the guarantee of good faith that he had tacitly undertaken since leaving everything behind to rescue the Slayer.  "Yeh, 's out," he retorted bitterly.  "'m free to be a bad boy.  Reign as much pain an' terror as I bloody well choose.  William the Bloody, back in action.  Hey, I got an idea.  Want a number of how many blokes I've killed since it was yanked?  Zero.  Oh, an' even better.  Want a number of how many blokes I _plan _to?  You'll never guess this.  Zero.  Where's the soddin' trust?"  He stopped and held up a hand for clarification.  "Oh, I forget.  I'm a vampire.  What else do you want?"

"That doesn't change anything," Buffy remarked softly.

His eyes widened.  "I—"

"It changes _nothing."  _Without anything else, she grasped his wrist so that he would turn to her fully.  "It's…I told you that I trust you.  That I feel safe…and earlier in the alley…I meant that, too.  The chip…in all honesty, I'd forgotten about it.  And the soulless thing.  And everything else.  In the end, I guess, you're just you."  She smiled weakly.  "Everything else is just detail work."

Though it had happened several times in the last two days, Spike felt himself overwhelmed with such a powerful incursion of emotion that he was genuinely surprised the wave didn't knock him to the ground.  Every time he looked at her, he suffered the same from the takings of his own revelations.  She was amazing.  She blew him away.  With everything that had happened, everything she had seen, everything she had experienced, she still gazed upon him with love, admiration, and acceptance.  Things he had never fathomed receiving from anyone, least of all her.  Things no one had given him. 

He had given her every reason to walk away, but she was still by his side.  And that astounded him.

With a small smile that did little to convey the depth of his feeling, he clasped her hand and offered a choked nod.  "Thank you."

It was a weak thing to say, and yet he could offer no more.  Not now.

A still moment spread through the lobby.

"Ummm…" Tara mused with a confused frown.  "Did I m-miss something?  Since when did…Buffy?  You and Spike?  You're…"

"They're a thing," Gunn explained, shrugging casually.  "I take it that's not the norm where you come from.  It's cool—I never thought I'd be workin' for a vampire.  And here I am."

"Wow," Cordelia remarked appraisingly, regarding the Slayer as though seeing her for the first time.  "That was very…unBuffy of you, Buffy."

The observation earned a weak smile.  "You'd be surprised what being tortured for weeks can do to your outlook."

She nodded.  "Touché." 

"Here, here," Gunn added with a grin.  "You got some major stones in you, girl.  I'm impressed."

The Witch was unsatisfied.  Trouble marred her brow, and her eyes were filled with concern.  "B-Buffy.  Is this b-because of the…of the saving thing?  I mean, it's great…what he did…but—"

"It's because of a lot of things," the Slayer replied, studiously avoiding her friend's gaze.  At first, Spike thought to balk in insult, but he realized quickly that her reasoning was far from the choices she made, and the revelations she had released about herself.  She was squeezing his hand tightly—such that were he anything less than human, she likely would have ground his bones to dust.  "A thousand things."

"I don't h-have a problem w-with it."  Unlikely.  The peroxide vampire knew Tara well enough to know that her stuttering problem only surfaced nowadays when she was uncomfortable or frightened.  The present situation had undoubtedly unnerved her, and the showiness behind their relationship—something none of the Scoobies could have been prepared for—likely wasn't helping matters.  "I j-just don't know h-h-how the others w-will—"

"Later," Buffy said, still avoiding her eyes.  "We'll deal with it later."  

"Right now, there are more important things," Wesley agreed.  "Like deciding what to do about Angelus."

"I still don't see what's wrong with the old fashioned stake through the heart," Wright muttered contemptuously.

"Back to this again?  How many times do I have to say it?"  Cordelia rolled her eyes.  "He's our friend!"

"He also _killed _your other friend."

"Who?" Tara demanded with a frown.

"Me," Buffy said softly.  "And Cordy and I really aren't friends."

"Gee, thanks Buff.  Glad to know you care."

"Well, really—"

"Wait, wait, wait."  The Witch held up a hand.  "Could you go over that 'he killed me' part again?  I really…I-I d-don't get it."

Again, Buffy averted her gaze, but nodded just the same.  "I was turned."

"Angel—"

"It wasn' Angel."  Spike glanced up with the expected wealth of self-remorse to replace whatever earlier jollity his lady's revelations had granted.  The unhappy reality loomed around every corner.  His shame was a palpable ripple that touched every part of him that could be touched; spreading throughout the streams of the Hyperion with such force that everyone felt its influence.  "It was me."

"No," Wright objected sharply.  "It was me."

"You're a vampire?" Tara demanded with a frown.

"No.  But I'm responsible."

"It was neither one of you," Wesley confirmed softly.  "Tara was right from the beginning.  It was Angelus.  He killed—"

"Yeh," Spike agreed, notably unmoved.  "But I sired."

Zack arched a brow.  "I _made _you sire."

"I have no opinion on this," Gunn observed with a shrug, crossing his arms.

Cordelia nodded her agreement.  "Neither do I.  Well, I sort've think it's more Angel's fault.  After all—"

"What _matters _is that I don't blame Spike or Zangy—Zack."  Buffy frowned.  "Sorry."

The demon hunter shrugged.  "It's okay.  I'm used to it by now."

"That's fine," the Seer returned.  "But we _still _have to—"

"Hey, I got an idea."  Wright turned to the group and offered a cynical smile.  "Let's put it to a vote.  All those in favor of killing Angelus, say aye."

He earned a positive response from Spike and Gunn, the latter of whom answered Wesley and Cordelia's identical looks of inquisition with a shrug.  "Doesn't really matter to me," he explained.  "I like Angel.  I do—"

"All of us have our faults," the peroxide vampire mused.

"—but he warned us that the day might come when he'd have to be taken out.  Right?  He warned us _repeatedly_.  Hell, he even commended our willingness to do it.  If he knew there was a chance of reensouling his ass and he didn't tell us to take it, what makes any of you think he'd want this for himself?"

"Angel's a champion," Cordelia replied.  "He deserves to make amends."

Buffy bit her lip unsurely.  "Since when?"

"Buffy!"

Her sire looked at her in surprise; hesitant to express the glee those two words brought him.

"The last time Angel went nuts, you and Xander did some heavy lobbying to make sure he bit the literal dust."  

"An' suddenly," Spike murmured, "my respect for Harris raises a notch."

Tara shrugged.  "He still wants you dead."

"An' 's dropped again."

"A lot has changed," Cordelia was saying, not at all deterred from the side observations that seemed determined to throw her off track.  "I work with him now.  I understand him.  I—"

"God, why don't you marry the guy?" Wright growled.

"What?" the Seer snapped.  "Are you seven, or something?"

"I have a small child," he retorted, as though it made a justifiable point.  "Therefore, I can act like a small child."

"He does play with Barbies," Spike observed.

Zack whipped back to him in astonishment.  "How the hell do you know that?"

"A li'l birdie told me.  And, if I may stress, don' say stuff like that around a witch." The peroxide vampire nodded to Tara, who immediately ducked her gaze to avoid the spotlight.  "Li'l things like that have a wonky way of comin' true."

Cordelia was staring at the demon hunter incredulously.  "You play with Barbies?"

"I have a little girl.  Girls like Barbies.  You do the math."

"Man," Gunn remarked, shaking his head.  "All your cool points have been deducted based on this alone."

"That hurts, Charlie.  It really does."

"Everyone, please.  There is still much to discuss, and bickering amongst ourselves over _Barbies, _of all the idiotic things, isn't going to get anything accomplished.  We have to consider this from Angel's perspective." Wesley took a dramatic breath, intervening with his calm logic that seemed to drive everyone a little further off the boundary of aggravation.  "What he has been through, especially given the affair with Buffy.  With how he feels about her, how will he ever forgive himself for—"

"What?" Cordelia spat indignantly.  "And we're not even gonna give him the chance?  He's a grown up vampire, Wes.  He knows that he and Angelus aren't one in the same."

"'E also knows that they're _not _not one in the bloody same," Spike snarled.  "Why don' we take a poll 'ere from someone who—unlike the lot of you—_has _seen both bloody sides of him back an' front.  How about—"

"Oh, and you're not the least bit bias, I suppose?" the Seer demanded.

His eyes widened comically.  "'m sorry, I couldn't hear you over your Pro-Angel Party Of One over there."

"Well, I might not have been around for a hundred years, but I don't think we should accredit who knows Angel best based on seniority.  Especially from someone who's _never _liked him."

"Maybe I don' like the wanker because I _do _know him better than you."

"Or maybe, it's because you're a jealous, self-centered son of a bitch!"

"That's enough," Wright snapped, stepping forward with furious intent.  "Honestly, Cordy—"

Her eyes widened incredulously.  "Oh, come _on.  _You're willing to play best pal to Mr. Soulless but give a vamp who's on a real mission for good, and _that _brings out the hunter in you?  Puhlease.  Spike's killed a whole helluva lot.  And—hey—_that was him!  _I'm not judging!"  She tossed an incensed glare over Zack's shoulder.  "Much.  Angel hasn't killed.  He's—"

"Wrong, pet."

"What?"

"Your precious bloody Angel _has _killed."  Spike prowled forward darkly.  "Durin' the Boxer Rebellion when 'e was crawlin' on his hands an' knees so dear ole Darla would take his sorry arse back to bed.  He also told me he once din't stop a local boy from gettin' knocked off 'cause it provided a tasty source of human-flavored blood for him to down.  So you see, precious, he's not some bloody saint.  Right?  Now lay off."

She arched her brows skeptically.  "When did he ever tell—"

"Back in SunnyD when he was that soulless wanker firs' time around.  An', before you say anythin', he had no reason to lie to me an' Dru, then."  The platinum vampire smiled when her skepticism melted away to the deeper understanding of actuality.  "An' I'm willin' to bet that he's done in a few of your Wolfram an' Hart lackeys."

"Those guys are from Hell Incorporated," Gunn observed.  "They don't count."

"They're _human, _aren' they?"

"If I may," Wesley said.  "Everyone here has brought up valid points—"

_"Some _more valid than others," Cordelia grumbled.

"—but I believe the only sporting thing to do is leave the decision in Buffy's hands."

With that, all eyes fell on the Slayer.

Buffy blinked nervously, recoiling when she again found herself in the spotlight.  "Me?" 

There was a beat of consideration.  Spike stepped forward and gently caressed her arm, fervor from angered verbosity with the Seer vanishing without hindrance.  "You're the one he hurt," he reasoned, though he obviously didn't like it.  "The one he…Wes's right.  It should be up to you."

As he spoke, the vampire felt something very flagrant clutch his nonbeating heart with the promise of her answer.  Her decision, whether she knew it yet or not, combed every inch of her.  Her eyes.  The way her face fell with the threat of imminence and the knowledge of buried resolution.  Angel.  It was always Angel.  Even after everything that had occurred, she always chose Angel.

Angel had ripped her to shreds, but not enough to save himself from his own salvation.

It was there.  Despite recognition, it was there. And even as she voiced her indecision, he felt the boulder of defeat blockade whatever happiness had ever presumed to know him.

As all things, one simple break was too much to ask for.

*~*~*

The shrill of the phone sounded through the near-vacant lobby, startling Buffy out of her reverie.  She waited for a minute before rising to her feet to near the front desk and was just rarely beaten out by Wright as he bounded from Wesley's office to snatch up the call with such poise that he could have passed for the genuine article.  There weren't many things that she knew about the demon hunter, but given what Cordelia and Spike had related, he was a newcomer to the scene and the speculation remained that he would be on his way once all was said and done.

The way he answered the phone, though, gave her a slightly different opinion.

"Angel Investigations," he drawled, "we let you get away with murder."  When he caught her dubious gaze, he mouthed, "Cordy taught me how to answer," then turned his attention back to the caller.  "Oh.  Right.  I see.  No, it's all right.  You stay there.  Trust me, we're not getting anything that could even remotely considered productive done.  Yeah.  Well, that and Frosty the Snow-Bitch needs someone there when she wakes up.  Oh, fuck off; I'll call her that if I want to, all right?  Fine.  Whatever.  Bye."

The angry stomp that clinched the transaction left little to the imagination.  Buffy smiled wryly and stepped forward.  "Friend of yours?"

"It was Lindsey.  He wanted to let us know that Kate's been out of danger for about an hour and her condition is stabilized."  A sigh rippled through him.  "Though she's sustained enough damage that she might be out for a while."

"Coma?"

"No.  Just an 'out for a while' clause."

"Ah."  Buffy exerted a deep breath and heaved herself onto the counter, crossing her legs Indian-style while whirling to face him.  "You think after she's released that I should suggest we go find Angel?  After all, there are people out there dying and whatnot because of him."

He offered a weak grin.  "Turnabout's fair play."

"It is at that."  

A short, somewhat uncomfortable silence settled between them.

"So," Wright began a minute later.  "What are you doing down here?  I thought you and Spike…"

"He went to sleep."

The demon hunter frowned.  "Isn't it a little early? Hell, I _know _it's a little early.  It's early for _me, _and I'm human."

"Well, he's probably not really asleep…just pretending to be so he can avoid me.  He's upset."  Buffy sighed deeply, steepling her hands against her chin with pensive digression.  "I can see why."

"Can you?"

"I hurt him today.  Earlier.  With the yelling and the…I hurt him."

"I hurt Cordy.  Going to need to do some groveling before the night is over."  He stiffened rigidly.  "Even if I'm right."

"You really think so?  You think that…you think that we should…?"

The unspoken question needed no elaboration.  The hunter had no trouble reading between the lines.

Wright shrugged as if it were of no consequence.  "He went through a lot to get you back.  I'm guessing killing Angel's the only kind of solace he can accept now that the rest is over with.  I get that.  I really get that."

"I should hope so.  Aside Spike, you were the one rallying the most for Angel's story to have a dusty-ending."  

An ironic smile tickled the man's lips.  "He's too much like me for his own good."

"Angel?"

"Spike.  In my mixed up logic, he's me.  He's me, Angel's Darla, and you're the wife I couldn't save.  It doesn't work like that, though.  I know he's killed people before.  I know it.  I know he's probably done something so horrible that…that what happened to me doesn't even begin to compare.  Well…" He stopped in consideration.  "No.  I don't think so.  Never mind.  What I know of Spike…he's too impatient to have taken the time to do what Darla did to me.  But he has killed people.  He's taken husbands away from wives and mothers away from children.  He's separated people for over a century and if you ask him right now, he probably wouldn't be able to feel anything aside surface remorse.  I know that.  And once upon a time, that would've been enough."

Buffy pursed her lips.  "To what?"

"To kill him.  That's what I do.  I'm a demon hunter."

"It's what I do, too.  I'm the Slayer.  It's my job."

"What changed for you?"

She offered a small smile.  "I was tortured.  And reality didn't matter anymore.  Titles didn't matter anymore.  I wasn't the Slayer then.  He wasn't a vampire.  He wasn't my enemy.  I saw him, and he was there for me, and he was Spike.  Just Spike."  Her gaze focused intently on some unmoving spot on the floor, expression hardened with a loss of her surroundings.  And she was talking.  Just talking. Talking to no one in particular.  To anyone who would listen.  "I thought about him before he was there.  Hell, I even had a Slayer dream about him.  I think it was…yeah, it had to be."

Wright frowned.  "Slayer dream?"

"Prophetic dreams," she explained.  "I've had them before.  Always come true.  And he did.  He really came for me.  And he was there to save me.  He was…it made him real.  Spike's always been just…Spike.  Before this.  But what he did…that made him real.  It made him something more.  I didn't see him as a vampire anymore."  She toughened.  "I hadn't seen a real vampire until Angelus.  Darla was right about that."

Zack swallowed hard at the mention of his mission's objective, but did his best to remain attuned to her needs.  "Spike's become a friend," he said softly.  "I don't know how it happened, but he has.  I don't…I don't want to see him hurt."

"Neither do I."  Buffy glanced at him quizzically until she understood the subtext of meaning, and her eyes went wide.  "Oh!  Oh, that.  I…what I feel for him isn't gratitude.  I realized that…well, after Cordy gave me her little inspirational talk.  I was worried.  Very worried.  I wanted it to be real.  And it is."  A sigh waved through her body and she allowed her head to fall into her hands.  "No, Zack.  It's real.  It's very, very real.  So real that it scares me."

He nodded understandingly.  "I get that."  

"It's just…now…" She shook her head heavily, her eyes clouding with tears that could not be helped.  "Now, everything else is real, too."

Wright frowned.  "I…?"

"This thing with Angel…Tara showing up.  Everything is becoming real.  I've been…" He waited obligingly as she gathered her thoughts.  "Being here…being with…with Spike like this.  With Wes and Cordy and…everyone…it's sort've surreal. And it's been easy to forget that I don't have a life somewhere else.  That I have to…go home.  And that things will still be there.  My house.  My sister.  Glory.  School.  Oh _god, _school.  Giles.  He's going to be so…disappointed in me—"

"What happened wasn't your fault."

"I'm a vampire!"

The demon hunter tensed.  "…that wasn't your fault."

"I know.  I know.  But it's real.  God, it's so real.  My life _stopped _being real the minute I woke up in Lindsey's office, do you get that?" He nodded numbly, but made no move to interrupt.  "And since then, I've been hopping from one nonreality to the next.  If I go back…and it…"

"Are you afraid things between you and Spike will go back to the way they were?"

Buffy's eyes widened.  "No.  No!  God, no.  That can't happen.  Ever.  I don't care what they think.  I would've, once upon a time…but the nonreality changed that.  The nonreality changed _everything.  _He's keeping me grounded.  He's what kept me from losing my mind when I could've.  He _saved _me, Zack.  He—"  

"You don't have to convince me, Princess.  I was there, remember?"

But the Slayer _wasn't_ convinced.  The fear flashing behind her eyes attested to that.  "Do you…is that what you think he thinks?"

"Well…"

"Because of the Angel thing?"

"Angel tortured you.  I'd want him dead." 

"It wasn't—"

"I wouldn't care.  He _tortured _you.  Fuck, he _killed_ you.  He did things to you that make Spike flinch at the suggestion.  And Spike's seen a lot.  You don't have to be a demon hunter to suss that out.  The guy's got a strong stomach.  I don't even wanna begin to know what that bastard put you through."  Wright shook his head with conviction.  "Do you really think that you can look him in the eye and forgive him for what he did to you, regardless of which face he's wearing?  'Cause despite the mechanics, Buff, it's gonna look the same in hindsight."

A trembling sigh escaped her lips, and she shook her head heavily in the face of newfound uncertainty.  For all the world, she remained one lost girl.  It was a difficult weight for one so strong to carry.  "I don't know what to do."

"Your realities are coming tumbling down."  He shrugged.  "They're gonna break.  You've had your refuge.  Everything else is human nature."

"I'm not human."

"Sure you are.  Being a vampire doesn't make you anything less."  Wright sighed heavily.  "And may I just say, bravo me for seeing that.  You're a good girl, Buffy.  I don't know you that well, but I know that.  And if you want help facing your demons, I might suggest holding the hand of someone who's been there."

"I need to talk to him."

"Well, yeah, but I was referring to myself."

A weak smile spread across her face, endless in its poignancy and even more striking in gratitude.  "Thank you."

Wright shrugged.  "That's what friends of friends are for."

She shrugged.  "Logic?"

"Works for me."

Buffy nodded, wiping her eyes to rid herself of the tears she had tried so hard to keep from expressing.  He was a good friend—if nothing else, he was a good, loyal friend.  She suspected that his good opinion once lost was lost forever.  And similarly, once formed outlasted a lifetime.  Zachary Wright was a good man.  A good, complex man working hard to rid himself of his own demons.  

He was a strong ally as well.  She liked him.  She liked him very much.

"Good luck with Cordy," she said, whirling on the counter to hop back onto the floor.

"Oh," he replied, wide-eyed.  "Trust me.  I'll need more than luck."

A dry, however understanding chuckle reached her throat.  There was certainly no doubting that.

And that was it.  The Slayer emitted a long sigh, then turned to head upstairs.

At this point, it was fruitless to force herself to conclusion.  With fatigue stretching at every reasonable aspect of her being, she stopped wearily in the doorway of the bedroom she was slowly coming to accept as hers and Spike's.  The picture that welcomed her warmed her unbeating heart; her sire, doused in worry-induced exhaustion, was fast asleep.  He evidently exhibited enough foresight to remove his shirt before reclining, though he had once more refrained from disrobing his jeans; his thumb was caught in one of the loops, his other hand cast above his head against the pillow.  And even though he was lost to the world, she could hear the faint rhythm of the few breaths his body decided to indulge.

A faint smile drew upon her lips.

If nothing else, he was a work of beauty.  

And he would likely resent the hell out of her for thinking so.

Buffy made short work of her own attire.  While she wasn't sure whether or not she was welcome in his bed after the spectacle downstairs, she reckoned he would have little ground to contest her when she told him what needed to be heard.  And even so, nothing that had driven them this far had seen light to objection.  He loved her.  He had told her so.  More importantly, she had felt it beneath her hands.  She had read it in his eyes.  She had tasted it in his kiss.  

This was nothing.  This business with Angel.

It was nothing.

Or would soon be nothing.  She had to give him that.  She had to ease his worry.

She had to adjust herself before making her decision. 

A sigh clamored her throat as she climbed into bed.  She nuzzled delicately into his side, reveled a bit when an arm instinctively came around her, but enjoyed no success in waking him.  Even as his fingers intuitively sought across her skin, as his tongue wet his lips, as he rumbled lightly in eluded content and snuggled into her with more of the same.  

Nothing like that to face tonight.  All saved for the morrow.

Buffy leaned upward to graze his temple with a kiss before losing herself completely in his embrace.  "I love you," she whispered.

The words escaped her with such casualness that she only lent herself pause when she thought of how he would react when they awoke.  She had hurt him.  She would fix it.  Because she loved him.

So this was what love felt like.  For the first time, she understood.  She felt it and understood.

Wonderful.  Terrifying.

She knew.  With everything else that remained hidden in the balance, she reached one truth that managed to strike fear into a hardened façade.  One truth to lead her through all the others.

She couldn't lose this.  Ever.

If she did, she would never recover.

Buffy shuddered and snuggled into him as best she could, but the thought remained with her far after she had fallen asleep.

Forever was a long time to suffer for the misgivings of one mistake.

She had to make it right.  Come morning, she would make everything all right.

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-One: _Silver Satin Wings_…**


	42. Silver Satin Wings

Chapter Forty-One 

Silver Satin Wings 

She woke up alone.

Buffy blinked herself to alertness and sat up with a slow sigh, taking in the breadth of solitude.  Her senses ached with the weariness of imposed separation, her hand automatically seeking the comfort of the man that was supposed to be at her side.  There was nothing.  Nothing but the lingering fibers of his presence.  The indention where his body had lain the night before as he offered her subconscious comfort.  Without needing to know at all, she recognized that the bed had been abandoned a little more than two hours before; she shivered with a likeness of foreknowledge.

She had not awoken with him.  And he had left her by herself.

The room was suddenly very cold.

A sigh trembled through her body as she collapsed wearily against the mattress.  In retrospect, she supposed she should be grateful.  For the first time since waking in her bed that final morning in Sunnydale, she felt well rested.  Alert.  As though today was the beginning of something resembling her existence within normality.  

Her instincts told her that it was around three in the afternoon and that the party, as expected, had congregated downstairs to undoubtedly continue the discussion Angel's future.  Buffy forced her eyes closed and groaned heavily. She wasn't ready for this.  She wasn't ready to barter away an existence based on faults that could never truly be held to his name.  She was liable to resent any conclusion her instincts led her to.  At one end, there was Angel.  Angel whom had always been there for her in one way or another.  Angel who was a good friend and a reliable confidant.  Angel, whose hotel she inhabited.  Whose residential quarters were just a few doors down from the place she had so recklessly claimed for herself.

And yet, whenever she thought of him, she could help but picture Angelus.  The part of him residing deep within the shell of a man.  His face.  His leer.  The way he mocked her when she wept, the crude suggestions that so effortlessly flowed from his lips.  The cruel harshness behind his touch.  How he had born marks on her that would never be healed.  How he had burnt away any lasting memory of her innocence with the threat of his contact, and made her into what she was now.  

A vampire.  

But she wasn't even thinking that far.  She couldn't.  Not with what she had been granted.  With whatever else Angelus had done, he had first and foremost violated her in a way she never thought possible.  In a way that would have, with anyone else, forced her away from the calm reassurance of a friendly touch.  

She didn't balk from Spike's touch when she thought she would have.  Despite what she felt for him, she hadn't suspected herself capable of that kind of healing within such a short amount of time, Slayer or not.  And yet, here she was.  And she was feeling the effects of their separation; whether from mentality or distance, she didn't know.  The rules and guidelines for newly-sireds were unknown to her.  Most that she came across didn't last that long.  

She needed to see him.  She needed to make this right.

The thought alone was what jarred her out of bed.  In an instant, she was on her feet, covers nearly strewn to the floor as she made her way about the room, frantically searching out the little intricacies that every girl must suffer through before showing her face in public.  She forced her thick hair through the painful subjection of a faulty hairbrush, perfumed herself up, and threw on some jeans and one of Spike's t-shirts.  She thought to stop in front of the mirror for brief self-inspection before remembering that such would do little good—_will I remember what I look like in fifty years?—_but forced her thoughts away before the notion could thoroughly depress her.

A small grin arose poignantly on her face at that.  Thank the PTB that Cordelia didn't seem to care about cosmetics anymore; otherwise the day would turn into a beauty criticism session at her expense.

The scene that greeted her upon reaching the veranda that surveyed the lobby turned her depressed disposition into something thoroughly humored.  The Seer was reclined comfortably in an armchair opposite Wright, thoroughly occupied with some designer magazine though it was more than obvious that she wasn't seriously fixated on any article.  Zack was perched faithfully at the edge of his seat: the epitome of a hawk studying its prey.  If she was aware of his scrutiny, she did not appear it.  Instead, she continued flipping to her leisure and nodding approvingly at various headlines.

How odd.

"They've been doin' this for about an hour," a voice to the Slayer's left observed.  "Ever since the lunch thing."

"Lunch thing?"

"Zack went out to get some grub.  Cordy made him go to half a dozen shops to get everything she wanted."  Gunn chuckled wryly.  "She's good. She's _very _good.  They haven't even been dating all that long, and she already has the man whipped."

Buffy's brows arched.  "Everything she wanted?"

"Man, you wouldn't believe some of the things she had goin' on in her diet."

"Trust me, I think I would.  I went to school with her for three years.  When she wants to punish someone, she does a good job of it."

The man shrugged.  "Wasn't nothin' Zack didn't deserve, I guess.  No matter who was right, he shouldn't have gotten all wordy with her.  That's just not cool."

"He was defending Spike."

"He was being a hypocrite."  Gunn shrugged again.  "He _was_ defendin' your honey, so I'll grant him that.  The man has pulled a complete one eighty since he got here.  For a while, Wes and I were wonderin' if we'd be lucky enough to keep him from doin' something colossally stupid…like stakin' Spike and effectively ruining all chance of getting you out."  He smiled sheepishly.  "Gotta tell yah, after hearin' your boy go on for a few hours, you get to the point where savin' you's a priority."

Buffy offered a weak smile, searching emptily for a polite way of breaking the conversation so that she could find Spike.  The scene downstairs hadn't changed, but she didn't reckon interrupting would be regarded as a good idea.  Whatever was being done was being done for the benefit of them.  All she wanted to do was find Spike.

Find Spike and make everything all right again.

Fortunately, Gunn was observant enough to recognize the signs.  When she glanced to him again, he was grinning like a lunatic.  "He's downstairs," he provided.  "In the trainin' room."

"What's he doing down there?"

Another shrug.  "Just a hunch…training?"

She gave him a look that was supposed to be more menacing than it was.  "Hardy har har."

"Charles Gunn.  One Man Demon Hunter, and a comedian on the side.  You better hurry, though.  Don't wanna be caught in the crossfire."  He nodded to the unchanged scene below.  "Trust me.  It's about to go boom in a very loud way."

Buffy nodded and gave him her thanks, but heeded his advice. If there was one thing she knew about the Queen C, stay clear of her when she had her eye on something.  It was a friendly warning to all bystanders, but one she had learned long ago not to take lightly.

It didn't matter, though.  She had her own prerogative.

It was time to make things right.

*~*~*

There was nothing quite like making a grown man squirm.  And she wasn't even using her tongue.  

True, it had been years since she found herself in the position to drive a specimen of the male race insane with any sort of antic, and despite consequences, Cordelia wanted this to last.  She was enjoying herself for the moment, and such was a position she would never forfeit.

Poor Zack.

Her behavior wasn't at all subtle.  With a yawn and a stretch, she motioned to fan herself with the magazine, not even bothering to cast an upward glance.  "Mmmm," she mused slowly, as though accentuating an afterthought.  "It's warm in here."

The next instant, Wright had obediently risen to his feet, traveled across the lobby and hit the AC without saying a word to the contraire.  Afterward, he tacitly returned to his seat, perched at the ready, studying her with shades of worry.  As though she were a nuclear explosion waiting to happen.

Too easy.

The Seer waited a few obligatory minutes, flipping through uninteresting articles that might have once struck her as utterly fascinating with an eye for apathy.  If she wanted to be totally honest with herself, she would contend to being more attune to the hunter's movements than even her own.

But no one ever had fun with honesty.

When she could wait no longer, Cordelia glanced up pensively, her eyes focusing on something across the room.  "You know what I could really go for…"

If she had been looking at Wright at all, she would have seen his gaze widen.  The picture of an obedient pup waiting to do his master's bidding.  She didn't think he was even aware of his actions, but that hardly meant that she was ready to concede.

"A nice cappuccino…with whipped cream and chocolate shavings."

Once more, he bounded to his feet.

"Two percent or skim?"

She flashed him a delighted smile as though she had no earthly idea that he would feel so compelled as to bow to her every whim.  The look she received in turn was skeptical but amused, giving off far more than he would ever let on.

"I'm feeling evil today," she informed him matter-of-factly.  "Two percent.  And you should really see if Wes and Gunn want something…if you're going out, that is."

He flashed her a smirk but complied all the same.

Oh yes.  She could get used to this.

*~*~*

It was dark.  Buffy knew it was dark.  She could feel it with everything she was.  And yet, when she looked around, her eyes provided sensory that she would have never believed possible.  And it wasn't as though she hadn't been prepared for this; vampires were nocturnal creatures for multiple reasons and their stunning abilities when cornered in complete darkness merely one of them.  It was the human in her that was having trouble adjusting.  Aside the few turned Slayers in the past; she didn't think that any newly risen vampires had to deal with the transformation as she did.  One step at a time.  Discovering the connective links between her talents and those born to her.  

The parts she had thought she would find difficulty with were already becoming second nature, and somewhere she recognized that the thought should have disturbed her.  It didn't.  When her body craved blood, she drank it.  Drank without hesitation.  Without lapsing in the concern that she was doing something unholy.  It was simply what her body wanted, and there was nothing she could do about that.

Blood had always made her ancy in life.  Funny that it was now a mere afterthought.

No.  Oh no.  It was everything else that terrified the Slayer.  Everything that awaited her beyond tomorrow.  Beyond what sat at the bottom of the stairs.  Beyond satisfying what she needed to satisfy to ensure her contentment.  To give Spike what he so richly deserved.

But it was more than that.  Always more than that.  She knew that.  She simply didn't know how to convey it.

She saw him clearly.  He was situated against the far wall opposite Angel's vastly unused training arena.  A cigarette was wedged proudly between his lips, a likely-empty beer bottle in the other.  His brows arched appraisingly when their eyes met.  

Buffy's gasp colored the air before she could stop it.  Before she even knew why it existed.  And then, through every fiber of her being, she felt the wave of his influence.  Not domineering.  Not power-driven.  Just there.  There and painfully reached out for her. Waiting for her to accept the proverbial hand he offered. 

It was the power of their connection.  Something there beyond what was given.

It moved her beyond reproach.

"An' out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, molding men."  A small smile kissed Spike's lips as he drew his cigarette out of his mouth.  "'S true, luv.  Whatever you say about your crackpot philosophers, that one's true."

Buffy nodded, though she had no idea what she was agreeing to.  "What's it mean?"

"Means you've…" There was a second's pause before a sigh tumbled from his lips.  "I don' even really know how to explain it.  My nature 's to be exactly what I'm not now.  'm not.  I haven't been who I am now…ever.  Not before I was killed an' definitely not in all the years after."  His gaze deepened pensively.  "'ve never known anythin' but one extreme or the other, sweetheart.  There was never a middle ground."

The Slayer gnawed on her lower lip thoughtfully, crossing her arms as she stepped forward.  "Do you regret it?"

"No."  A dry chuckle sounded through him.  "Never could.  I don't know love, Buffy.  I never did till I…till you came along an' turned my bloody life upside down.  Thought I'd had it once.  You had a right time provin' me wrong."

"I didn't—"

"I know.  'S all my doin'.  An' I don' regret it, sweets.  I never could.  Nothin' you've ever given me."  Another sigh shattered through him, wracking his shoulders with such force that she would have thought him weeping had he not glanced up the next instant.  "An' I believe you.  What you said in the alley.  An' earlier.  About trustin' me.  But I've never had it all.  Ever.  An' rightly, with what I've taken from you, I can't expect it now."

"Spike—"

"Angel's important to you."

"Yeah."  She flinched as he flinched, but there was no way to dance around it without inherently betraying everything she was.  "In some twisted way…but I don't love Angel.  I…I can't love him.  Ever.  Not even counting what's happened…this isn't even about that."  Buffy expelled a deep breath and crossed the room before her courage failed her.  She felt the hot swell of his gaze needily upon her face—full and wanting.  The hint of what he was about to say only made her love for him expand.  Even if he didn't realize it himself.  Even if he didn't know the full of what he was on the verge of offering.  It wasn't even remotely about that, and despite her knowledge of such, she couldn't help but find every aspect of him completely endearing.  

And she was determined to prove it to him.

"Mind if I sit down?"

Spike arched a skeptical brow at her but gestured to the floor all the same. 

"No.  I meant…" Without awaiting his questioning glance, the Slayer cast her legs astride him so that she was seated in his lap, face-to-face with her lower body ground deliciously against his.  She prided herself in the low moan that whispered through his lips in response to her and scooted as close as possible so that he could not mistake her intent.  "Is this all right?"

The brow domed again.  "'F you can't feel how all right it is…" he said, thrusting forward slightly so that his erection crowned against the needy peak between her legs. "…then we have a problem."

A low whimper coursed through her.  The sound amazed her ears.  There were certain things he was proving her capable of without thought.  Sounds, emotions, all of the above that she hadn't ever thought herself possible of achieving.  "Agreed."

Spike smiled and stamped out his cigarette.  "Good."

"We need to talk."

"I figured.  I jus' wasn' lookin' forward to it, as there has never been a good conversation in the history of the world that began with those four words."

Buffy smiled softly and leaned forward, brushing her lips gently against his.  "Then we're about to _make_ history."

It was impossible not to share the ripple that surged through him.  She reckoned she could have felt it across the world and back.  

"Here's the thing," she said, fingers idly enjoying the texture of the wisps of hair collected at his nape.  And suddenly words failed her.  Nothing calamitous.  Nothing treacherous.  Simply by looking into the ocean depth of his eyes, whatever she wanted to say coiled infinitely at the end of her tongue and staunchly refused to be handed out.

The Slayer's eyes widened.  Goddammit.

"The thing goes like this," she stuttered, thrown by his expectant look.  Then paused.  "The thing is—"

"Buffy, baby…you don' have to—"

"No.  You really, really need to hear this."  A tremble shuddered through her.  "I'm just bad at saying it."

He tilted his head curiously.  "Why?"

"'Cause I've never said it before."  Her gaze lowered to the compact space between them.  "Never really…and I've never felt…"

"Buffy…"

"Okay.  For real this time.  Here's the…thing…" She scowled a bit as his eyes twinkled.  It was so strange being in this position.  The last time she bore her heard to anyone, it was Angel.  And she hadn't loved Angel.  Not really.  But until Spike, he was the closest to love she had ever managed.  How the hell did she expect herself to confront the real thing?

It had to be done.  That was all there was to it.

And it was better to start with that.  It would give her motivation for everything else.

"Brace yourself, honey.  This one's gonna knock your socks off."  She smiled slightly at the downright curious look marring his features.  "Angel…I…I realized right before he came in to kill me—" Spike automatically tensed in her embrace, thus she routinely slid her hands to his shoulders, rubbing slow, sensual circles to draw the worry out. "—I realized that I never loved him.  As in…ever."

There was nothing for a long, dead moment.

"Never?"

"Never."

Spike blinked at her incredulously.  "An' the Oscar goes to…"

"I know, I know.  But I'm not making it up.  I just…I realized that I loved you…then. It was then.  I knew it then.  Before anything else.  And it was so…different."  Buffy smiled as his eyes warmed at her admission.  Again now.  Without the fighting.  Without all the ugliness between them.  Simply because.  "It struck me so hard that I knew…I knew it was the real deal and whatever Angel and I had was just…it wasn't love, Spike.  I thought it was.  Hell, I would've defended that it was to the death just a few months ago.  But it wasn't.  I didn't even know him.  By the time I did…know him, that is…I had already convinced myself that I was in love with him so nothing else mattered.  It was a stupid high school girly thing.  I guess I thought being the Slayer made me…something more.  It didn't.  He was the first guy I got serious about…but that's where it ends."  

He stared at her for a long, dubious minute.  As though the weight of everything lasted so long on his shoulders that any choice but to believe her faded for the other extreme.  Everything he had known.  Always.  Ever since the fateful night that sealed their acquaintance, he had accepted her feelings for Angel.  Accepted.  Never questioned.  Hell, he had lectured them on how their love would never die.  How they could never be friends.

It made sense that he doubted her now.

"I never trusted him," she concluded softly, not knowing what else there was to say to convince him of her honesty.  "Ever.  Not like…I trust my Mom and Giles…and Will when she's not playing around with spells that make all of us do something wonky."  That observation earned a light grin.  "And you.  I trust you.  I trust you more than…and I get it if you can't believe me now.  I wouldn't believe me, either.  Things between us have never been like this."

His eyes narrowed.  "That's the understatement of the soddin' century.  God, Buffy, I never thought you'd let me…when we were—"

"I know."

A short, dry chuckle tackled his throat.  "You can't."

"I know.  Believe me."  A sigh trembled through her when she saw she wasn't doing much to convince him.  "Look, I don't know what changed it for you.  I really, really don't.  And despite popular belief, I wasn't exactly born yesterday.  This…this 'us' thing started a long time before the…before Angelus."

He had nothing to say to that.  His eyes told all the truth she needed to know.

"I'd like to say it's been mutual the whole way through.  But you were always Mr. Vamp and so I kinda never ever let myself go that way.  I mean, it wasn't even a thought.  Not because you're not noticeable or anything."  She grinned deviously.  "If anything, you're more distraction than any woman should ever have to deal with."

"I can't believe you jus' said that."

"Believe it."

"No, I mean really.  I'm tryin' to piece this together.  Everythin' in the past few days has been soddin' windstorm.  I keep expectin' to wake up or…or worse…" Spike glanced down.  "I haven't let myself think since I got word that you were gone.  With before…when you let me…" She felt heat that shouldn't exist rise to her cheeks.  Vampires weren't supposed to blush, but she felt it.  She felt it enough to know it was real.  His grin of verification was all the punctuation on the thought that she required.  "But with you wakin' up…not hatin' me…trustin' me…an' now this with…throwin' Angel into the mix—"

"Angel is so not in the mix."

"Buffy—"

She shook her head, determined.  "He's not.  I told you that I—"

"You never loved him.  Right.  Pull the other one." 

"It's new, Spike.  All right?  That make you happy?"  The Slayer exhaled deeply and rolled her eyes.  "You are without a doubt the most insufferable man I've ever met."

"Thanks ever so."

"But you're the first man I've ever loved.  Ever.  And I don't know what I have to do to convince you."  That was it.  With the revelation, the game became a wild card draw and she forfeited the emotion that had compiled against the dam barricaded at her heart for the lasting fear of exposure. Her eyes welled with tears that she did not want but similarly couldn't bid aside, but when she tried to look away, a firm hand caught her by the chin and tugged her back to the first and only home she had ever known. 

All the more reason to drive her point home.

"And you know how _I_ know it's love this time, Spike?  How it's different from before?  You wanna know how?  Because we _are _friends.  I was never Angel's friend…and that's more important to me than you can imagine.  That I can be in love with you and be your friend, too.  And everything on top of everything else, it scares the _piss _out of me.  You're getting to see the side of Buffy Saga Central that no one has seen since the colossal not-love that was Angel."  She angrily wiped at her tears but it was overly futile.  They simply kept coming.  "Don't get me wrong.  I thought it was.  There were feelings that were very love-like, but they weren't love.  I was too young and I…but if _not-_love can do that to me, then you…God, I don't wanna think about what you could do to me."

"I'd never—"

"Yeah, I know you'd never."

"Do you?" His voice implored her eyes, and when their gazes met her breath caught at the wealth of emotion he was giving her.  Though she knew the full of what he felt, the reality behind it still managed to steal whatever was left at her and throw it to the wind.  "Do you really?"

"Spike, any thought I ever had about you hurting me has kinda died with the entire chivalrous Prince Charming routine you've been pulling since you came to me in my dream."  Buffy pressed a finger to his lips before the thought she saw dwelling in his eyes could know birth.  "And yes, it was you.  It was a Slayer dream and everything you told me has come true."

A deep silence settled around them.  Haunting.  Melodic.  Silence, as many things, had a life of its own.  She simply had yet to appreciate it.

Before she knew it, she was speaking again. 

"Do you…" the Slayer fumbled for words.  "Do you at least believe that I love you?"

Spike's grip on her tightened.  "Yes."  He buried his mouth in her throat, caressing the skin there with feather-light brushes of his lips.  The effect sent ripples of pleasure through both of them, and they took a minute together to gather their bearings.  "God, yes.  I can feel it.  It bloody astounds me."

She smiled kindly.  "Me, too."

"I believe everythin', luv.  You have no reason to lie to me."

The smile just as easily melted into a frown.  "Then—"

"I jus'…'s so hard to grasp.  The entire…I…" He broke off and shook his head.  "With everythin' that's happened recently, this is somethin' I need time to mull over.  'S bloody incredible, what you've told me.  I know you mean every word.  I know it.  I jus' think 's gonna be one of those things that hits me right before I nod off.  You've broken my world more times than I can soddin' count.  An' you keep doin it.  Someday 's gonna hit me that this is real."

He had absolutely no idea how close to home those words struck.

"An' this business with Angel—"

"I can't explain it.  I just…I need time."

There was a long pause.  Though she felt his compliance, she also felt the sting of reservation.  No matter what she told him, there would always be some innate draw between him and Angel.  The gods themselves could not prevent it.  And yet, the weight of his concession bore no right.  His lips caressed her temple and, with extreme vacillation, he nodded against her.  "'S all right, luv," he told her.  "'S all right.  You don' have to know anythin' jus' yet."

Buffy smiled softly and feathered a kiss across his cheek.  "Thank you."

A rich, however embittered chuckle rose to his throat.  "You don' have to thank me for anythin'…ever," he told her.  "I've taken enough from you that—"

"Oh, for the love of God, stop."

He arched a brow.

"Stop with the pity-party, Spike.  Honestly.  If I didn't know you were completely serious, I'd accuse you of compliment fishing.  Or reassurance-fishing.  Or whatever it is you'd fish for."  She shook her head in aggravation.  "You have to _stop _blaming yourself."

He grinned rather shyly at her.  It was the most adorable thing she had ever seen.  "I jus' can't believe you…'m sorry.  I'll stop bein'…sorry."

A giggle arose to her lips.  "Good.  It's making me crazy."

"An' we can't have that."  With a look to correspond the suddenly light-filled glow in her eyes, the peroxide vampire gently kneaded her sides with probing fingers and was honestly astonished when she squirmed and laughed even harder.  The action, of course, caused his jeans to tighten rather uncomfortably, but he pushed the sharpness of his own body's demands aside and focused rather lavishly on the blonde in his lap.  "What's this?" he asked, feigning innocence.  His fingers continued their attack and Buffy was suddenly forced back by the impact of her laughter, trying desperately to edge away but unable to escape his assault.  

The Slayer managed to wiggle out of his lap—if not fully his grasp—and immediately began to claw her way to freedom.  The attempt, however ineffective, only served to fuel his mission onward.  "Stop!" she begged through laughter.  

"What's this li'l trinket I've found?"

His fingers became more boisterous, searching out the full expanse of her body to find all her ticklish crannies.  "Spike!" Buffy howled.  "Stop!"

"Seems to me the Slayer's ticklish…"

"So help me, Spike, I'm gonna—"

The elder vampire merely leered appraisingly, toppling her over for the fullness of his delight.  _"Very _ticklish."

"SPIKE!"

"Mmmm.  Love that, pet.  Feel free to keep screamin' it."  He blew her a kiss, straddling her thighs for better access.  "'F only I'd known this a few years ago…"

Buffy was laughing so hard that her face was red with tears.  Had she any room for forethought, she would realize that bucking him off was no hindrance for a vampire of her strength, but her mind was clouded and refused to follow logic through to conclusion.  "STOP!"

"Coulda been useful—"

"I swear to God—"

"Wonder 'f I can sell it on the streets.  Knowledge on the Slayer's weakness fetches a pretty penny."

She managed to glare at him before giggles took over again.  "Like you would!"

"Li'l tactics on how to bring the notorious Buffy Summers to her knees."

Her eyes widened and she managed to seize one of his offending wrists, wrenching him to a momentary standstill.  "Oh," she said, suddenly in full control of herself.  "I coulda sworn all it took to get me on my knees was you."

That was it.  Spike stopped to stare at her in flustered wonder, and she seized control before said flustered wonder could manifest into full-scale smugness.  She captured him fully between her thighs and used that leverage to flip him over, cast astride the lovely length of his body.

There it was.  That flash of cocky conceit.  The same look that had once aggravated her to no end now made her fluster in anticipation.  But he couldn't know that.  "Gotta admire me a girl with nice strong legs," he purred appraisingly.

Buffy grinned, eyes glittering with mischief as she lowered her hands to his sides, giving back every bit as good as she had received.  Her victim instantly began squirming, his usually deep baritone emitting a high-pitched giggle that easily rivaled her own.  It was enough prompt that she would have lost her own control had her objective not been thoroughly clear.  Now that she had him like this, there was no way she was conceding the higher ground.  

"Oooh, what's this?" she demanded mockingly, spitting out a poor imitation of his teasing between her own chuckles.  "Seems to me the Big Bad has a weakness."

"Buff—"

"Who knows how many people would like to take wicked advantage of this knowledge?"

Spike arched with a high-pitched shrill that touched her senses more than his ticklish jibes ever could.  He was simply adorable.  Adorable.  And that was all there was to it.

"Of course, I couldn't allow that," she informed him pristinely.  "The only person allowed to take wicked advantage of your scrumptious self is me."

The peroxide vampire's eyes widened and his laughter died, hands seizing her wrists once more.  Buffy smiled warmly down at him.  There simply wasn't a part of him that she didn't revere.  The wealth of astonished longing and the glow of love that reflected back at her was more than she could ever ask for.  More than she expected from anyone.  Least of all him.

And yet, despite everything, here they were.

"I don' know how it happened, either, sweetheart," he murmured softly, speaking no broader on terms she already understood.  "It jus' did."

"Yeah," she agreed.  Buffy berated herself with idiotic tears flooded her eyes.  She was beyond crying like some insecure schoolgirl.  She had always thought so.  If he knew how he changed her, he did not let it show.  It was warm and embracing and more than a little frightening.  Wonderful.  "It did."

"I love you."

The Slayer nodded erratically, trying to find her voice. "Love you."

He smiled at her, index finger bopping the end of her nose with gentle affection before moving to caress her cheek with warmth that did not know a name for itself.  Then his hands were in her hair, pulling her down to him so that he might taste the richness of her mouth.

Of course, with the initiation of one kiss, everything bound forward.  All the pent up hormones that they had suppressed out of obligation or a need to delay celebration of their newfound love burst through sloppily constructed barriers.  Within seconds, they were warring with each other.  Tongues dueling for dominance as teeth nipped and hands familiarized themselves with the contours of each other's bodies.  Spike clutched at her desperately, drawing her as close to himself as possible without swallowing her whole.  And still, it wasn't enough.  He flipped her over the next second, pinning her wrists to the ground as his lips and teeth explored her to his content—his jean-clad erection moving urgently against her center.

With a low moan, Spike's mouth began skating down her throat, coaxing little whimpers from her with every teasing bite.  His hands skimmed over her breasts and settled on her stomach, outlining her bellybutton blindly before continuing to her hips.  The growl of frustration that rumbled from her throat only prolonged his torment.  He enjoyed seeing her like this.  Like this.  It was so strange, considering everything they had shared before.  He knew her body well—intimately, even—but not with his own.  Something always set them aside.  As though the step marked with finality made for the right moment.  The right everything.

They had shared so much, but there was still so much left.

It dimly took Buffy a minute to realize that he had freed her hands.  When she felt his own skim over her breasts again, she seized initiative and grasped him in the butt of his jeans, thrusting herself against his hardness and earning a long whimper for her efforts.  His fingers slid under her top in retribution, searching out her skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps after his light caresses.  While he did pay special attention to the sensitive underside of her breasts, he made no effort to satisfy the fire that raged in fierce demand for his touch.  The Slayer's grumbles of aggravation strengthened, much to his delight, and he planted what had to be the most ridiculously chaste kiss on her forehead.

"You're lovely like this," he informed her.  And she was.  With her chest heaving for air that she didn't need and a flush coloring her cheeks in a manner that should have been impossible, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  Theirs would be a tale of fulfillment.  In time, he supposed she would learn methods to conceal just how he affected her.  He hoped not.  He never wanted her to hide from him.  Not like that.

It was a bit hypocritical.  Were he obeying the natural laws surrounding his body's temperament, he would have been panting and begging as well.  As it was, he was having a hard time not touching her everywhere.  Not releasing himself from his ridiculously tight jeans and thrusting himself deep inside his haven to quench that fire.  No.  He wanted to do this right by her.  There would be other times for such exploitation.

Spike would never hide how he felt.  This was merely an exception.

"We…" she gasped.  "We need…to…go."

"Oh, do we?  Where?"

"Upstairs."

"Interestin'." He kissed her again.  "Why?"

"Goddammit, Spike, stop teasing me!"

He cocked a brow in turn, lowering his mouth to her skin once more and accentuating between kisses.  "Or.  You'll.  What?"

Bad idea. 

Buffy flashed him a frighteningly controlled look then boldly slipped a hand between them to grasp him firmly.  While layers of fabric separated them, there was absolutely no mistaking her intent.  And just like that, all the supremacy he had been battling for was lost.  A long, unintelligible moan hissed through his lips and he thrust needily against her touch.  There was nothing she could do that would fail to have some profound and reasonably thwarting effect.  He had never reacted to anyone's caress in the manner he reacted to hers, and similarly, he would trade it for nothing in the world.

"Use your imagination," she suggested, licking her lips.

In all honesty, Spike wasn't sure what affected him more; her words or her actions.  His hands slammed to the ground as his body trembled and he fought futilely for control.  After a few long seconds that intermingled with equally long, heavy pants, he pulled back with fierce concession.

"Right," he whispered urgently.  "Upstairs."

*~*~*

"How about this situation in Chechnya?"  Cordelia drawled, flipping through her new reading material.  "What a nightmare, huh?"

About ten minutes had passed since the demon hunter had returned with her last inane request: a copy of the New York Times.  Wright's incredulous look off the demand had nearly earned him additional scolding until he saw clearly that the waters he treaded were not yet still.  And, aside a brief thank you, she had not addressed since his homecoming.

This was getting out of hand.

A low groan rumbled from her companion as Zack collapsed wearily against the chair.  "Really, Cor, I don't give a fuck about Chechnya.  Nuke 'em for all I care.  Just tell me if I'm forgiven or not!"

An irritatingly condescending chuckle rang from the man at the counter.  "Man," Gunn said appraisingly.  "Are _you_ ever askin' for it?  Honestly, you might as well bend over." 

The Seer's eyes widened as she gesticulated widely to her colleague. "He's right.  You're gonna get it, boy."  Then she stopped with a frown.  "Not _that _it because…well…ew.  But you'll get some form of very unpleasant 'it.'"

"Cordy!"

"And I reiterate, 'nuke 'em'?"  A flawless brow arched.  "I can definitely tell who _you _voted for in the last election.  Which is fine: I just don't date Republicans."

Another long-winded moan seized Wright's throat.  "CORDY!"

She chuckled lightly, folded the newspaper and setting it aside, and traded a stretched, speculative look with Gunn.  "You think we've tormented him enough?" she mused.

Zack nodded emphatically.  "Yes!"

The other man, however, didn't appear convinced.  With a devilish gleam in his eyes and a smile that could not be outmatched, he stroked his chin before offering a lone shrug.  "Hmmm…I don't know.  Have you resorted to manual labor?"

"Now _there's _an idea."

The demon hunter's shoulders slumped crestfallen.  "There's manual labor?  As opposed to the going _everywhere _that I've been doing since this morning?"

The woman smiled evilly.  "Well…"

Suddenly, the door to the basement flew open to unveil a blissfully oblivious Spike with his arms full of Buffy.  Their mouths were moving together hungrily, their hands grasping at all sorts of naughty places that no outsider should ever bear witness to.  They seemed oblivious to their surroundings and even paused for a minute so that the Slayer could leap fully into her lover's embrace, coiling her legs abound his waist and grind even more provocatively against him.  They crashed haphazardly against the elevator door, fumbled for access and all but fell within its cavity.  By the time they were out of sight, the floor was blown into a shocked, dumbfound state of submission, staring at the place they had disappeared until crashing sounds above signified a successful arrival.

It was Cordelia who broke the silence.  With a sigh, she shifted slightly and located a notebook that had evidently been stored under the cushions of her sofa.  "Well then," she said, flipping the pages open.  "Who had Saturday at two?"

*~*~*

Buffy found herself propped against a door, her hands curled in Spike's hair as he fumbled hastily for the knob that remained hidden behind her body.  His mouth was ravaging hers, rumbling little whimpers into her that went straight to her center.  The force of him against her, rubbing into her, outreached anything she had ever experienced.  For the love of everything, it had never been like this before.  Never.  Just this—this—this being with him outshone what she had shared with any of her past lovers.  No man's touch had aroused her as effortlessly.  With his denim-clad erection grinding into her to the point where she shared the wealth of his wanting to coincide with her own, she thought she would go insane if she didn't feel him strong and within her.  Now.

Which required getting to the other side of the door.

She pulled away breathlessly.  "Spike—" 

Only to be tugged back before he answered huskily.  "Tryin'."

"Hurry."

The door opened the next instant and nearly sent them both to the ground.  Not that they would have minded—or noticed—the change in scenery.  She didn't even remember how they had gotten up here.  They had been in the basement just seconds before, she knew, and now they were in the bedroom.  _Their _bedroom.  In retrospect, the restrictions of how and why didn't really matter.  Spike had blown her world away already; it wasn't entirely impossible to her that he could alter time and space.  With the way he felt against her, the passion tumbling from his mouth, the sensual rub of his desire against her own, logicality had no merit.  It was just he and she.  Vampire and Slayer.  Sire and childe.  Man and woman.  And that was all that mattered. 

In seconds, he had torn his t-shirt from his body, pulling away to give her the same treatment.  She thought he muttered something about his approval of seeing her in his clothing, but was too forgone to register the words.  Spike caught her lips in a roughly passionate kiss before giving up on her bothersome overshirt, ripping it apart and throwing it to match his own in the armchair across the room.  "That was my favorite shirt," he growled.  

"Yeah," Buffy agreed headily, "and you broke it."

"'S better broken, then," he decided, nipping at her breasts as he navigated them backward, hands rubbing rough circles at her hips.  "It was keepin' me from you."

When they finally reached the bed, however, Spike's urgency melted away with the stringency of reverential awe irrevocably took over.  It was a wondrous sight to watch—the way he pulled away with such gentility, the look in his eyes speaking for everything even his infamous words fell short of.  She thought it silly that his love could still surprise her, but it did.  It did.  With every lingering substantiality, he never failed to take her breath away.

Spike pulled back reluctantly, gazing upon her with such worship and adoration that it melted the fullness of herself.

Her eyes fell back to his mouth, tugging him forward to indulge the richness of his taste.  "So strange…" she murmured.

He pulled away just long enough to rumble a nearly unintelligible, "Whassat?"

She smiled and kissed him again, unable to get her fill.  "The whole time…right there."

"Mmmm?" he hummed against her lips, hands cupping the fullness of her breasts and, caressing the underside before he finally pulled away to taste her skin.  He kneaded her shamelessly, drawing a nipple into his mouth.   

Buffy gasped and clutched his head, careening back.  "You were there," she sighed.  "You've always…the whole…"

 "Always will be," he murmured against her skin.  "'ll never be anywhere else."

The Slayer's crooned, whimpering deep within her throat.  "Even before…" she complained breathily.  "I never…saw you…until now.  I'm sorry.  Sorry it took…something like this—"

He frowned and pulled back a bit, teasing her nipple with his teeth.  "Don' be silly," he berated.  "Bygones, an' all that.  'Sides, you said I couldn't apologize, remember?  Well, you can't, either."

A beautiful, mocking scowl befell her features.  "You're a bad man."

"Thanks ever so for the memo."

Her hand slid from his shoulder as though following a whim of its own, crossed his thigh and suggestively cupped the telling bulge that was grinding into her hip.  She earned a hearty moan in turn and grinned.  "Mmmm…_very _bad man."

It was Spike's turn to whimper inarticulately as he thrust against her touch.  His hands dropped into her lap as form of petty retribution, prying her trousers open so his nimble fingers could dip inside.  When he encountered nothing but her slippery flesh, it was all he could do to not forfeit every will of self.  "God," he gasped, "you're gonna kill me, pet."

"Now, why would I wanna do that?" Buffy replied innocently, giving him a squeeze.  __

"Oh, that's it."  The platinum vampire promptly tackled her to the mattress, feathering her face with ardent but equally soft kisses as eager, clumsy hands worked at the trousers that so cruelly concealed her flesh from him.  "You're gonna scream until you're hoarse, luv."

"Ohhh…"

"Well…the second time, at leas'.  The firs' time…we'll take it slow.  Nice, delicious, an' slow."  He grinned slyly.  "Still, screamin' is encouraged."

Buffy emitted a very unladylike snort that seemed oddly in-place for the moment, despite the temperament surrounding them.  "Pig."

Spike chuckled lovingly.  "Want you."

"I—"

His hand slipped deftly between her thighs and under the waistband of her panties once more, eliciting a scandalous gasp and an arch as his fingers explored moist softness that never ceased to burn him alive.  He knew her like this well.  Every time he touched her, he came to life in ways that killed every cliché there was to kill.  Then dug up them up and killed them again.  A low moan rumbled through his chest, and he eyed her hungrily as hands that knew her too well played her to delicious capitulation.  "An' you definitely want me."

"Pig!" she accused again.

"Oink bloody oink.  You smell good enough to eat."

"Spike…"

"Think I oughta test that theory.  You mind?"  With that, he began to unceremoniously slide down her body.

"Spike!"

He stripped her of her slacks without fight and slid her panties down with the same notion, delivering one torturous lick to trembling skin.  "All for the namesake of science, of course."

"SPIKE!"

"Hmm.  Barely touched her an' she's screamin' my name already.  Very interestin'."

"I can't believe you're already making a study off our sex life."

Spike arched a brow.

"Well, okay, I can," she amended.  "But…again…with the candles…and the romance…and—"

The brow quirked higher and he lowered his head again.

"You're tellin' me this isn't candles an' romance?" he demanded, his voice reverberating against her skin.  "Science can be romantic."

"—and if you stop doing that, I swear to GOD that I'm going to shove something very stake-shaped through your heart, consequences be damned!"  

He chuckled against her and she trembled at how good such a small motion could feel.  "Don' worry, baby," he assured her with a nibble.  "I have absolutely no bloody intention of stoppin'."

The Slayer cried out and arched back, her breathing labored—her hands clenching the bed linens with such force that she nearly ripped the fabric to shreds.  In the short amount of time they had shared, she had never been so presumptuous to assume that his insistence to pleasure her this way was anything that he enjoyed.  However, with the noises that were rumbling from his throat, he emanated the presence of one dining on the finest crème brule.  As if this was more for him than her.

Spike was shoving her reservations and assumptions aside in a manner that berated her for having them in the first place.  With every torturous lick, every sinful nibble, every time his tongue swept her clit and entered her, she found herself spiraling further down the whirlpool of paradise.  And as if his mouth wasn't enough, his fingers stroked her to furthered ecstasy.  

He was setting her skin ablaze without even trying. And it drove her absolutely out of her mind.

Her orgasm was slow but sudden, shattering her into a blazing pit of white-hot rapture.  The old adage of seeing stars was overused but no less true.  He overwhelmed her until she exploded, let her cool down, and did it again.  The cry that tore from her lips nearly choked her with ravenous delight, and the murmur of approval that rumbled from her sire only added to her pleasure.  

She wondered, recovering, if Spike would always possess the ability to make her feel this way.  And as though sensing the thought, he delivered another lick to her quivering skin, nuzzling her inner thigh with deferential adoration.  And she knew then.  She knew.

"Spike…"

That was all the persuasion he required.  Dropping kisses across every inch of skin he discovered as he moved upward, the platinum vampire settled over her, capturing her mouth in a powerful, demanding kiss.  His tongue implored hers; sweeping inside, wrestling her own for dominance before he pulled away and turned his attention to her throat. 

Buffy nearly grumbled in frustration, her hands moving to the clasp at his jeans.  But again, as he had in the alley, he grasped her wrist and drew her attention to his eyes.  The look he betrayed was loving but concerned—a small, gentle smile playing across his face.  

"Are you sure?"

"Sure?" she repeated incredulously.  "Yes, of course I'm sure."

"I don' wanna hurt you.  With what 'appened…'f you're not ready for this—"

Buffy stared at him.  His apprehension seemed ridiculous compared to what he had been promising just moments before, but it still touched her heart and sent warmth to every inch of her aching body.  With a tender smile, she touched his cheek and nodded.  "I heal fast," she assured him.  "Even faster now…Slayer plus—"

Spike dropped a kiss across her palm.  "There's more than one way to hurt you," he whispered, caressing her face with curled fingers.  "More than one way to make old achies come back.  'F you're not ready—"

It wasn't difficult to decipher his meaning.  Her reservations about everything that initiated physical contact seemed foolish now.  All she needed was him.  "I'm ready."

"You—"

"Spike…I wouldn't lie to you, especially about this.  I'm ready."

He was still for a long minute, searching her face.  Needing, imploring.  When she gave him back everything that he poured into her—no reservations, no hesitation—he smiled gently and lowered his mouth to hers, his own hands turning to his trousers.  

In seconds, they were both gloriously naked and stretched together.  He poised between her legs, rubbing himself against her thigh as moans of encouragement rumbled from her throat.  He turned his attention to her breasts again, lavishing her with his tongue as he slid a hand down the expanse of her abdomen to test her readiness.  His touch teased her with knowledge that was so natural, she would have thought it by accident had he not flashed her a particularly wicked grin.  The same grin that widened when her voiceless whimpers threatened to reach summit.

Buffy arched again, a long moan escaping her lips.  "Spike, please!"

"I—"

She reached between them, grasping his cock and bringing him to her entrance.  Her eyes fluttered closed as the sensations threatened to take over, compounding into overload.  "Please."

"Buffy."

"Please."

"Buffy, look at me."

She did.

"I love you."

It was only when he had her smile that he edged himself inside.  A gasp clawed at his throat as she clenched him.  Tight.  Oh God.  Tighter and tighter.  On this alone, it was nothing he had ever experienced before.  Nothing _she _had ever experienced before.  The coming together of something created out of genuine love.  Something shared and known.

Never.  It had never been like this.  

"Oh God," he moaned, sliding forward until he was completely within her.  Buried to the hilt.  And even then, he couldn't move.  It took a minute to gather his bearings.  The sensationalism of simple joining alone was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he feared losing all sense of self.  "Oh my God."

"Yeah."

"You're so—"

"You too."

"Buffy…" Spike's hands returned to her face as he began to move, watching with awe-filled eyes as she contoured in pleasure.  "'ve never…never felt anythin' like this."

She shook her head.  "I…me, either."

His head found solace at her shoulder, his hands seeking hers.  Their fingers entwined and settled over the mattress, clenching tighter with every thrust and parry.  The molding of her flesh around him was more home than he had ever experienced.  The scent emanating from her sweet skin.  Knowing it was _her, _knowing it was the woman he loved and had thought to never have…it was too much.  The tempo he set was gentle, pushing them both beyond the depths of physical enormity.  Every inward stroke seared his skin, every time he withdrew his body lamented her loss.  It was the most blissful torture he had ever known, and he never wanted to leave.

And she was matching him.  The shades and ripples and everything that crossed her face touched every nerve ending he thought possible to touch.  Her fingers tightened around his as she lifted her hips to recapture him every time he pulled away.  Then she broke her hands from his and entwined her arms around his throat, bringing his mouth to hers.  

Their kiss was slow but demanding.  Tasting each other for everything they had to offer.  When he pulled away to lick his way to her breasts, laving her nipples with his tongue—making sure to give equal attention to both—she forced her head against the pillows and clenched her thighs together, earning a long, strangled moan. Spike had Buffy's legs abound his waist the next instant, his hands pinning hers to the mattress once more.  His movements were deep and leisure.  There wasn't a moan, a sigh, a whimper that escaped from her lips that failed to be cherished.  He decided that he loved her like this—and though he knew that he would, seeing the finish of his trials made the reward all the sweeter.  Not for the intimacy of connection, not for anything aside the flashes of ecstasy that flooded her faces with regularity that stole his nonexistent breath.  There were times that he reckoned his heart ought to start beating again.  Every taste new.  Every sensation treasured.  Every ­_everything _was more than he thought he should be able to survive.

They were pushing each over that threshold.  Always had.

Right from the bloody beginning.

A muffled sob rumbled from her lips as his thrusts grew deeper, her hips lifting rhythmically to help him along.  "Spike, please…" 

He smiled.  "Somethin' you want, sweetheart?"

And that was another thing.  From sensual to taunting without losing an inkling of sentiment.  That had never happened to him before.  It was always one extreme or the other.  When they teased each other, it was out of more feeling than he had ever thought possible to experience.  

"Now.  Please?  Now.  Now now now now."

A tsk tapped through his throat; he couldn't help grinning at her.  "Such impatience."

"You…ass!"

He frowned at her with mock ignorance.  "Well, we could try, I guess—"

"SPIKE!"

With a chuckle that served to send ripples across her skin, as though every move he made was somehow in tune with her own sensory, he drew a deft pattern across her thigh, hooking a hand under her knee to assist its venture over his shoulder.  A gasp of surprise shuddered through her and her Slayer muscles tightened even further.  

"Oohhh," he purred.  "You liked that." 

Buffy nodded emphatically, a choked sob of pleasure rumbling through her lips. It didn't seem possible; he was stretching her from every angle imaginable.  

Spike smiled kindly at her, brushing damp locks of golden hair from her forehead.  His movements refused to sharpen—rather remained at the same slow, agonized pace.  "That better, sweetheart?"

"Good!" she moaned, almost unintelligible.  "Spike good!"

"Well, I've reduced you to Cave Buffy…" His breaths were growing sharper, even as his attention remained fully with her.  This was important to him—always had been; she could tell it in the matter he went from teasing to serious and loving within two seconds.  While it was not always possible, the peroxide Cockney craved gentility in the bedroom.  He had spent more than a century with a vampire that was as kinky as they came; this simple lovemaking was something he would never, ever take for granted. "Guess that means somethin'."

His hips swirled with every thrust; touching regions within her she didn't know existed.

The Slayer's hands sought freedom, wrapping around his forearms and digging trenches that were deep enough to draw blood.  "Spike…"

His head dipped, lips brushing a reverent kiss against her throat where her pulse would be, attentions honing.  The movement caused her further back into the pillows, and a strangled cry escaped her.  And when she felt his nimble fingers massaging her where they were joined, it was over.

The second Spike sensed she was falling over the edge, he allowed his game face to burst forward, nuzzling her beautiful sweat-laced throat with deferential awe before penetrating the moist skin there, sweetening her orgasm all the more and triggering his own.  And they fell together—seemingly perpetual in a joyous tumble down something they both knew so well without knowing at all.  As though the newness and the promise of forever melded them into something more than either could have prepared for.  Something that grew with difference and stayed the same.  

He wanted to claim her.  Wanted to bind her to him for all eternity.  Wanted that promise in the way that no other had ever allowed him.  But he did not.  He would not without her consent.  Therefore, he retracted his fangs with more of the same, licking the small wound closed and pulling her with him as he rested on his side.  He did not wish to smother her with his weight, but the haven of her body was too rich to lose, even with their submissive breaths of recovery clouding the air.  No.  He wanted to remain here—remain within her—as long as possible.

For long minutes, they were still.  Her body heaving against his in demand for everything she wanted but did not need.  The platinum vampire smiled gently and reined her into him, vowing tacitly to never let her go.  Not with the battles they had faced and the obstacles they had conquered.  This was his forever, and he was never giving her up.

"Spike?"

"Mmm?"

"You weren't kidding when you said 'second time'…were you?"

His eyes wedged open and he studied her imploring face for a long minute before his own broke out into a wide, almost mischievous smile.

"Oh, baby," he assured her, rolling her onto her back, his hardened flesh plunging deeper within her at the movement.  She gasped, eyes wide.  "You're not goin' anywhere."

"Already?"

A chuckle sounded through his body.  If she wasn't used to blokes with stamina, she was in for a rude awakening.  He had waited too long for this to quench his thirst with any sort of one-nighter.  There were months and—if he wanted to be perfectly honest—years of fantasies to exorcise.  Oh no.  They weren't anywhere near finished.

However, he decided not to overwhelm her.  Not yet.  "You better bloody believe it."

This was it.  This was what people, historians, philosophers, and all those other wankers had been talking about for centuries.  The proverbial _it_ that one only recognized when it was finally obtained.  He had thought to he had possessed it before, but what she gave him now nicely pushed all measure of believability aside.

This was it.

And he would never let go.

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-Two: _Tub on a Flowered Mat_…**


	43. Tub on a Flowered Mat

**Chapter Forty-Two**

**Tub on a Flowered Mat**

A cool breath caressed her throat with gentle tranquility.  It was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that should have jarred her to wakefulness, but Buffy's eyes fluttered open all the same.  And the first thing she saw was a crown of platinum hair.  Spike had buried his face in the crook of her neck, his arm abound her waist, his chest pressed to her chest.  Her own arm had sneaked under his to drape over his abdomen; she was snuggled as thoroughly into him as physics would allow.

It was the most wholesome homecoming she had ever known.

The way he slept enchanted her.  While away from his overwhelming gaze, he portrayed the charm of boyish innocence.  As though his body hadn't known a century of endurance.  As though everything he was stood as the epitome of normalcy.  It charmed her that his sleep could present such a picture.  That she could obtain in death what she never could in life.  This propriety.  This belonging.

It didn't take long for the night to come rushing back, nor the flush that should have been banished from her cheeks to overwhelm the entirety of her being.  They had done things beyond the reaches of her admittedly modest imagination.  Things she had long ago developed reservations against ever attempting.  Things she had never heard of.  Things she reckoned he invented for her sake.  Things that likely had no English spelling.  

Buffy's blush deepened.  It would be a miracle if she could even look at him today.  With the knowledge of their indulgencies burned into her system, she didn't think it possible.  Not without defying the logic of vampirism with her impossible blushes and the promised heat of his gaze.  

And that was strange, because she had never been embarrassed about her sex life. Well…okay.  She was embarrassed that she didn't have one for a while.  But as for the details of whatever sex life she had, nothing ever managed to affect her.

Spike did.  Spike changed everything.

And he was waking up.

Oh. Holy. Jesus.

Buffy tensed, impossibly nervous as he yawned against her throat and blinked himself to alertness.  She recognized the instant he became aware of her.  The instant he remembered everything they had shared the night before.  And, while she was prepared to sink in the furrow of her discomfiture, his eyes found hers with sleepy adoration and banished all her worries.

There was nothing to be ashamed of.  Not with him.

"Mornin'," he purred, dropping a kiss against her collarbone.

"Afternoon," she corrected.  "And sorry."

He frowned.  "What for?"

"Waking you up by staring."

Spike smiled his gorgeous dimpled smile and caressed her mouth with his.  "I can think of much worse things," he assured her.  

A giggle touched her lips.  "Such as?"

The immediate answer was there but halted before it could find release.  There was no need to clarify what he was thinking.  All was more than obvious with the way the glimmer in his eyes faded briefly, bringing back the wretched memories of what had been.  The Slayer kissed his cheek to remind him that she was with him, drawing him back to her with lazy playfulness.  Thus with a shrug, he speculated, "Slow an' painful castration."

Buffy made a face.  He shrugged again.  "You had to ask."

"I did at that."

"How you feelin'?"

Her gaze narrowed.  "Is that a loaded question?"

"No," he replied honestly.  "A loaded question would be, 'what would you do 'f I were to—'"

The Slayer's eyes flew open and she covered his mouth, flushing all over again.  "Don't.  I believe you."

"You din't even let me finish."

"Trust me, I knew what you were gonna say.  Or something of a similar nature."

A sly smile crossed his lips, but he shrugged all the same.  "How are you feelin'?" he asked again softly.

Buffy arched a brow at him.  "Well rested?" she ventured.

"'S that all?"

"Very happy?"

A shy smile crossed his lips as he leaned inward to nibble on hers.  "Me, too."

That wasn't difficult to decipher.  With a pointed look, the Slayer glanced down to the covers where she could see the outline of an impressive bulge forming tellingly against her thigh.  "I can see that.  Honestly, Spike…"

He chuckled, shifting slightly to sit up.  "I don' think I ever wanna leave this room again."

"Second that notion."  Her nose wrinkled.  "Though I am kinda feeling sticky."

His eyes twinkled.  "Sticky, eh?"

"Oh, shut up."

"What kind of sticky?"

"I swear—"

A naughty hand delved under the blankets, gliding against her moist skin with devilled ease.  "Ohh, yeah," he purred.  _"Very _sticky.  Think I oughta clean you up?"

"I don't think anything that you and I do in this bed will result in either one of us being clean."

He smiled knowingly and removed his hand.  "Well, we can't have that.  Come on, luv.  Lemme draw you a bath."

A laugh erupted from Buffy's lips as she slapped his shoulder playfully.  "Yeah," she agreed dubiously.  "And that's gonna help _a lot."_

Spike flashed her a look of pure innocence in turn.  "Jus' for you."

"Ah.  One of _those _baths."

He gaped at her, unable to hide his smile, though he ducked under a look of pure feigned bashfulness and shook his head as though berating a child.  "You have a dirty mind."

Her eyes widened.  "Me?  _I'm _the one with the dirty mind?"

"Yeh.  I better watch out, or you'll sully my virtue."

"Excuse me, Mr. Let's Try Something I Can't Even Spell, I—"

"Oh, feisty."  Spike's grin was illegally devious, she was certain.  His demeanor was lighthearted and, well, happy.  Despite everything, she didn't believe she had ever seen him happy.    These past few days aside, in the entirety of their acquaintance, he had never had reason to emanate joy.

No, she corrected herself.  During Willow's 'Will Be Done' spell, he had radiated the presence of one satisfied in life.  He had smiled at her.  He had giddily expressed his hopes for the future.  He had gotten along with her friends.  He had been happy then.

And if she wanted to be terribly honest, so had she.  She had been happier under the influence of magic than any of the days preceding or following.  Until now.

_Gettin' killed made me feel alive for the very firs' time, _he had said.

He was right.

Now there was a frightening thought.  Frightening but poetically appeasing.  As a Slayer, the only time she got to live was after she died.  Talk about unwanted irony.

"Buffy?" 

His soft inquiry jarred her back to the present, the concern marring his features warming her insides with more than she could have asked for.  With a small smile, she nodded and rose to her feet, bashfully averting her eyes as his own ran the length of her.  He had seen everything there was to see—and done more than that—but the way he looked at her was positively sinful.  It amazed her that he could still gaze upon her as unsampled candy after everything they had shared.  "Yeah," she replied.  "Bath time."

It was amusing watching him navigate through the hotel.  Comfortable and quick with all the courtesies of home.  It was likely that Spike didn't even realize he was doing it; moving with such inside knowledge that one would suspect he had been taking up residence within its structure for years.  He led her to the bathroom after throwing on a pair of sweats; she had no idea why he thought it appropriate to cover himself—perhaps to avoid temptation, perhaps out of habit.

He was too cute sometimes.

"Cordy lent me some of her poncy smellin' bubble stuff," Spike offered, leaning over the edge to grasp the first container that met his fingers.  "An' when I say 'lent', I mean for you."

Buffy grinned.  "Of course."

"I don' really fancy smellin' like lavender all day."

"Oh, come on.  It's a nice smell."

He smirked and began drawing the bath, dumping in what had to be half the bottles' contents into the running water.  The tub itself was a bronze antique; looking to be something snatched right out of a 1950s movie set.  She had never seen one and suddenly felt her stomach clench with the most ridiculous anticipation.  Everything with Spike seemed heightened and exciting.  

Perhaps that was the love part.

"All right," he said, tossing the bottle aside after securing the cap in place.  "In you go."

The Slayer arched a brow.

"What?"

"I've changed my mind," she said.  "I think I want you in there with me."

Spike favored her with a skeptical leer.  "I thought you wanted to desticky yourself."

"We can do that, too."

There was a pregnant pause, but in the end, he opted with a loving smile and a nod to the tub.  "There's plenty of time for the other, sweetheart," he promised softly.  "Come on.  In with you."

The water was warm and pleasant; the bubbles complete with foamy goodness.  Buffy rumbled an audible groan of approval and leaned back, eyes falling shut.  "Mmmm," she mused.  "You draw a wicked bath."

"Thanks, luv.  I try."

Her eyes wedged open after a minute.  Spike had situated himself onto the counter and was studying her with a small smile on his face.  The picture of everything she thought herself to have earned after such a long trial in fighting for the contrary.  It was frightening how quickly he had become so important to her.  A long time on the opposing side of her affections.  Now they had been through hell and back together.  Hell and back, and there was still much to face.  So much lingering on the horizon.  

So much they had put on reserve.

Buffy rumbled a deep breath.  "What do you want to do?"

He quirked a brow.  "About what?"

"You know about what."

A sigh shuddered through him and he looked down.  "'m really the wrong person to be askin' about this, luv," he replied.  "My opinion's a li'l biased."

"In case you haven't noticed, Jessica Fletcher, everyone in this building is a little biased.  Even those who don't know Angel."

A small smile played upon Spike's lips.  "Zangy's a loyal bloke."

"Loyal to you."

"An' Cordy an' the Bit."  When she frowned, he held up his hand to signify a person of small stature.  "You saw her the other day.  The girlie.  Rosie.  That's Zangy's daughter."

"Oh.  That's the small child he was referring to?"

He nodded.

"The one that makes him play with Barbies?"

Spike grinned.  "'m willin' to bet he secretly enjoys it," he observed.  "Trust me, you get to know Zangy, you know 'e's not the kind of bloke that would do somethin' he doesn' like."

Buffy chuckled lightly and stuck out an arm to lather.  "You speak as though it's a crime to enjoy playing with your daughter."

"Givin' her past, 's a small wonder that she's interested in Barbies at all."

"Doesn't she have that older sister type hanging around?"

"Nikki."  Spike nodded.  "'S her aunt.  Li'l stake-happy bint.  Trust me, she's even less likely than Zangy to have introduced the Bit to the wonderful world of all things frilly.  Who bloody well knows?"

"I'm thinking about inviting him to come back with us."

There was a still pause.  "Zangy?  In Sunnydale?"

She shrugged.  "Yeah, why not?  He's your friend and after this Darla business is over—remind me to remind you to never tell me the full story there, because, well, blech—he can come conscience free and help us beat the baddies.  Besides…you two obviously mean a lot to each other."

Spike tilted his head curiously.

"Well, you do!"

"I don' think he'd go for it, pet."

She frowned.  "Why not?"

"Well, Zangy's not liable to settle down," he replied with a shrug.  "An' even 'f he did, I'd wager it'd be close to Cordelia.  They've grown bloody close over the last few weeks.  An' though he's a vagrant bloke, he's not the type to form attachments without them…you know…attachin'."  A sigh broke through his body.  "Truth be told, I'm not too wild 'bout goin' back as it is."

Buffy blinked slowly before the first wave of objection overwhelmed her.  "I—"

"'m comin', luv," he reassured her.  "You better bloody well believe it.  I'm not lettin' you get outta my sight again."  He exhaled deeply.  "'S jus' the everythin' else that comes with it.  You saw the way Glinda reacted to us.  None of the rest of your Scoobies are gonna be too thrilled with the way things 'ave gone since—"

"They'll deal."

"I—"

"I don't care what they think."

He looked at her dubiously.  "Yeh," he retorted, "you do.  They're your mates.  An' they happen to be very anti-vampire."

"Well, yeah.  And hello, me vampire."

"You're the Slayer.  You're also the owner of a shiny soul."

"Spike, I don't care what they think.  Maybe I would have at one point…but I really don't care."  Buffy shook her head, eyes determined.  "I love you, and if they love me, they're gonna have to accept that."

"They're gonna think I put some whammy on you."

"Well, they'll be wrong."

"Or that you're jus' going through the Stockholm Syndrome."   

She frowned.  "The what-a syndrome?"

He chuckled.  "They'll think it's 'cause I came after you an' got you away from Peaches."

"That was just a nudge."

Spike held up a hand.  "Regardless, they're not gonna like it, pet.  An' yeh, they might get used to it an' what all…I jus' prefer it here.  With the Angel Wankers White Hats.  They treat me like one of their own without the soddin' guilt trip."

"I've noticed that you act mostly human around them."

He smirked.  "I have my human moments."

"I was kidding."

"Yeh.  You're a riot."

"I try my best."  Buffy sighed and leaned back, arms stretching to either side of the tub.  "Well…I don't really like Los Angeles…though I don't like the Hellmouth, either.  Besides, there's still Glory to consider—"

"Relax, pet.  'm not suggestin' we move up here.  You'd hate bein' away from the Scoobies, an' I'd hate bein' away from you, so sod that idea."  He shrugged, crossing his arms.  "But there might be weekend visits.  Perhaps _daily _visits, dependin' on how much Harris pisses me off."

"You'd really drive up here every day?"

"No.  I'm jus' sayin'."

Buffy's brows arched teasingly.  "So you're all talk?"

He stared at her for a long minute before allowing a large grin to spread across his lips.  "Not _all _talk, luv," he purred.  "You found out that much last night."

"And I reiterate, pig."

"You love it."

She gestured at the tub.  "You sure you won't come in?"

"You jus' got through destickifyin' yourself," he observed.  "That'd be a bloody waste of bubble bath, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, fine."  She pouted petulantly for a few seconds before caving and releasing a long sigh.  "Will you hand me a towel, then?"

His brows arched and he nodded, hopping down from the counter and turning to investigate the prospect of towel locale.  The sight of his turned back was all the incentive required.  Buffy's jolted out of the tub, seized him around the waist, and yanked him back down with her so that his back was pressed provocatively against her breasts and his head rested wearily against her shoulder.

A sigh sounded through her companion, though it was more than obvious that he was far from put out.  "I should've known you were gonna do somethin' like that."

"Well, you were being difficult."

"Villainous minx."

"And here I thought you'd be happy that I can't seem to keep my hands off you."

She could feel his grin stretch across the expanse of his body, wring across his skin and fill every previously empty cavity with life.  It was a wondrous sensation—exploited and deepened from her share of its feel.  "Ohhh," he purred, stretching against her.  "'m happy, luv.  Very, very happy.  Now let me up."

Immediately, Buffy's arms clamped down with an exercise of strength that was—by right—wholly unfair, but she couldn't help herself.  For her purposes, she needed him right where he was, even if it was as a hostage.  "I think," she mused contemplatively, "that I wanna see how happy you are."

Spike's hand instantly rose to stop her own in its course.  While his eyes had done nothing but speak promises of love and a desire to continue what they had started last night, he seemed otherwise intent to keep to business this afternoon. And though she appreciated the sentiment, she desperately wanted a little more time before they returned to the reality that lurked downstairs.  Before she had to sit down and have a conversation with her conscience about what action would best suit Angel.  Before she had to consider the inevitable return to the home that waited for her, and the friends that might shun her in light of her transformation.

The friends that would, regardless of their opinion of her, blame and reject Spike for his part in everything that had occurred.

"No," she breathed into his ear.  "Please."

A raw, tense nerve triggered effectively and sent a wave of desire in its utmost state through his form.  With a strangled, nearly piteous whimper, he nodded urgently, caressing her inner arm with a fervent kiss.   Small shivers rippled across her skin in turn, her hand sliding down his abdomen with unhurried comfort.  She enjoyed the full feel of him—the smooth firmness of his stomach, the way he moaned when her fingers slipped under the waistband of his soapsud-laced sweats.  Everything he gave, no matter what it was.

"Buffy—"

"Shhh.  Let me play."

Another long whimper scratched at his throat.  "With fire?  'Aven't you heard?  Vampires an' fire don' mix."

She grinned and nibbled lightly on his ear.  "I'll take my chances."

Her fingers circled the base of his erection playfully, earning another garroted gasp.  She murmured her approval, her other hand sliding down his arm at its convenience, barely touching him so that dribbles of water teased him in her place.  "Well," she said softly.  "You _are _happy."

Spike nodded desperately.  "Bloody ecstatic."

A tender smile warmed her lips.  She maintained a tantalizingly gentle rhythm to her caresses, sweeping her hand along the length of him: up, back, and up again.  Over and over, her thumb brushing the aching head of his need with the maintenance of a delicate afterthought.  When she traced a particularly sensitive vein with her fingernail, he gasped and arched back, buttocks grinding provocatively against her burning center.  She figured, however, that he didn't even hear her answering whimper.  His own coloring the air touched her in a way she didn't think possible, even with everything that had happened between them, and she dropped her mouth to his throat, encouraging more of the same with wet, affectionate kisses.

"I love the way you feel," she whispered, teasing his ear with her teeth.  Her other hand had finally reached its objective.  With restrained composure, she crossed his hipbone, outlined his skin with tentative approach, and finally cupped his sac when she knew he was on the border of losing himself completely.

"I love the way you feel, feelin' me," he moaned in turn.  "God…you…Buffy…"

"What do you think we should do?"

That earned a blink of surprise.  A palpable struggle to find his breath.  Finally, after long seconds, he jarred himself to awareness and tried without success to find her eyes.

"Wh-what?"

"Well," she replied with an innocent shrug.  "You wanted to talk."

Another pause.

"You expect me to talk like this?"

"Should I not?"

Spike moaned and his head collapsed wearily against her shoulder.  "Buffy…"

Her grip on him constricted ever so slightly.  "It helps take my mind off things," she replied.  "Gives me…strength."

"While drainin' mine, I notice."  His hands found purchase on her knees, his grip tight as he thrust against her touch.  She let him set the pace, indulging slight victory in the notion that he had conceded fully to her advances.  Granted, he had put up more of a fight than she would have expected, but it made the reward all the sweeter.

Only a few days into their relationship, and she knew there had never been anything within its vicinity.

"I also thought…" she continued calmly, her grip on him becoming more boisterous, her touch more demanding. "…that if maybe I talked to you like this, you'd be a little less bias."

In response, Spike thrust eagerly against hers.  "You've got the most incredible hands," he commented with bated breath.

"Why, thank you.  I've grown rather fond of them, myself." Her thumb settled along the head and, rather than sweeping back, lingered with small, sensuous circles.  Her other hand squeezed the weight of him in her palm, and when she sensed he was about to tumble over the edge, she allowed her fangs to extend and sink into the tempting alabaster at his throat.

That was it.  Spike released a hoarse, reverent cry, and came.  His sharp movements sent splashes of water over the tub's side, his grip on her thighs near painful but not.  Buffy kept her incisors latched in his skin, her hands stroking still, until she knew the waves were over.  Then, delivering a fond and ridiculously virtuous pat to his penis, she released him completely and smiled as he collapsed against her, panting for air as though his dead lungs would collapse.

"Whups," she said, ignoring his needy breaths of recovery.  "It appears that I've made you dirty."

With numb, nearly weak astonishment, Spike was finally allowed to turn in her embrace.  The way his skin trembled against hers gave her the most absurd satisfaction, but she did not question it.  She would question nothing with him.

"And if we want to follow this through to conclusion," she continued casually, "we need to clean you up.  And hey!  We're in the bath.  Already a step in the positive, don'cha think?"

He stared at her for a long, disbelieving minute.

Then, slowly, he smiled.  

"You are," Spike said determinately, "without a doubt, the most shameless, brazen li'l hussy I've ever come across."

"Actually, honey, you came on yourself.  Not on me."

Emotion stormed his eyes.  "We can fix that."

Buffy giggled, and the sound made his gaze glow with even more fervor than before.  "And to think," she mused, "I was nervous about facing you when I woke up."

He quirked a brow.  "Nervous?"

"Because of the endless and inventive sexcapades that was last night."  Even as she spoke, she could feel the should-be-nonexistent heat rise to her cheeks, and from the look coloring his features, the sight enchanted him.  "I don't know what I thought, but I was nervous.  Then you woke up and everything was all right."

A slow, seductive smile crossed his face, and he neared to plant a kiss on her nose.  "You're adorable," he decided.  

"Well, I try."

Something slipped against her moist opening.  Buffy's eyes went wide and she arched against him.  He immediately seized initiative, edging two fingers into her with smooth, learned ease.

"Mmm," he murmured, nuzzling her throat.  "You're also slippery."

"Uhhh…"

"Wonder 'f that's you or the water."  Spike quirked a brow of interest.  "Think I better go check."

As he began to descend, nibbling teasing lovebites along the way, she managed to find her voice and pounced before it could abandon her again.  "Another…one…of your…scientific…observations?"

He winked at her.  "You catch on fast."

That was the last thing he said before his head ducked under the water.  But then, by that time, words were highly overrated.

*~*~*

"How long have they been up there?"

Cordelia glanced up from her notepad, phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear.  Tara was sitting on one of the plush sofas in the foyer and had spent the past half hour or so glancing nervously to the veranda in anticipation of Spike and Buffy's debut for the evening.  Thus far, she had maintained tacit patience, which was more than the Seer could say for herself.  However, no one in their right mind was about to approach the bedroom chamber.  The entire floor had practically been labeled as off limits.  

"A long ass time," Gunn ventured from where he was sprawled on the opposite settee.  "What'd you say, Cordy?  More than twenty four hours?"

She nodded.  "Easily." Then returned her attention to the phone.  "Okay.  So you're taking her over to her place?  Well, I guess you can bring her here if…oh no, that's definitely better.  Very.  I think Zack's a second away from making Anti-Kate Campaign Posters.  Oh, lighten up.  Yeah.  Okay.  I'll call Wes and have him bring something for you, too.  Oh come on.  That's what mortal former-enemies are for, right?  Right.  Later.  Buhbye."

"He's comin'?" Gunn asked after she hung up.

"Yeah.  He might as well.  He's helped us as much as he could."  The Seer shrugged.  "Might as well let him in on it."

"Wh-where is Zack?" Tara asked.

"He chaperoned Nikki and Rosie to the cinema, even though I didn't think it was necessary."  When Gunn arched his brows, Cordelia's eyes widened.  "Well, _you've _seen the way she handles herself.  Besides, the theater's right around the corner."

"And we have three very scary vamps running around out there."

"And also a child to entertain, two vampires to draw out, and a big blubbering baby who can't admit when he's wrong."  The brunette sighed emphatically.  "It's the hard-knock life.  Anyway, the last I knew, the plan was to get them there, then meet Wes at Caritas and possibly look at the library again for that girl I saw in my vision.  They'll swing by to walk the girls home and pick up some grub along the way."  She emitted another deep breath and shook her head.  "I tell yah, it's gonna be worth it for this thing to be over just so we can concentrate on work as per norm.  The girl in my vision didn't seem to be of the type that could just…wait for us to get to her, you know?"

He glanced to the upper level.  "They deserve this," he decided softly.

"Oh, I agree.  I totally agree." 

"So w-we shouldn't…" Tara gestured emphatically.  "You know…get them?"

Cordelia and Gunn exchanged an amused glance.  "Um, no."

"But—"

"No 'buts'," the brunette advised.  

"They'll come down eventually."  

"And if they don't, we'll drag them out."  The Seer shook her head.  "It's been hell on Spike these past few weeks.  They deserve one friggin' day off.  It's no big."  

"Besides," Gunn added, "until she makes her decision about Angel, we're sitting ducks."

Cordelia frowned.  "Ummm, yeah.  About that.  Wes's decree that the full of our friend's fate being left in the hands of someone he nearly and did torture to death?  Not a likin' that.  I say we ensoul him now."

"That's not fair."

"Yeah, it is.  You _know _Buffy's not gonna want him back."

"No, we _don't _know that," he retorted hotly.  "And even so, who're we to say?  After what he did, maybe he doesn't deserve to be back."

Tara bit her lip, uncertain.

"What happened to him wasn't his fault, Gunn," Cordelia spat, eyes wide with incredulity.  "I can't believe you.  You're his friend.  You should—"

"Look, C, I get it.  Angel has a clause.  Angel's special.  Angel's different.  Angel had a soul, and therefore we oughta cut him some slack.  Angel _is _my friend.  Sort of.  We have an understandin'.  And that's somethin' that we oughta take into consideration before even mentionin' soulin' his ass up, all right?"  The man released a deep breath and shook his head.  "What I don't get is the soul clause.  If we soul him up, what's to stop us from soulin' every vamp we come across up?  Then we'd have a society of Undead Americans—and some illegal undead aliens—runnin' around, 'causin' all kinds of hell."

The Seer's eyes widened incredulously.  "That's _so _off-scale."

"Is it?  How?  If it works for Angel, why not everyone else?  What makes him so special, other than the fact that he's sort've our boss?"  

"And this is the reason we should stake him?  Because it's not fair to the others?"

Gunn reeled forward harshly.  "Okay, now you're just putting words in my mouth.  I'm just sayin' that if Angel was just another vamp, we'd kill him.  Especially with what he's done."

"But he's not—"

"Yeah, yeah, he's not.  He's Angel.  Our boss.  I get it, O Hypocritical One."

Cordelia rolled her eyes and pivoted sharply to Tara.  "Hey.  You've talked to the others, right?  Giles and Xander and all them?"

The Witch blinked unthinkingly for a minute before she realized that she had been directly addressed.  "Oh.  Oh!  Y-yes, I c-called Willow the f-first night…t-to tell her th-that B-Buffy was all right."  She glanced down sheepishly.  "Spike had f-forgotten to call Mr. Giles."

The Seer smiled softly and offered a sheepish nod.  "It's been hectic around here.  And Spike was all worried there at the beginning that Buffy would hate him because she was suddenly a vampire."  She shook her head slightly, eyes going wide with the hint of remembrance.  "When he first got here, he was like Zombie Spike.  He wouldn't leave her bedside for anything.  And then after…anyway.  Did Willow tell you anything about what she thinks should be done as far as reensouling Angel?"

"W-Willow doesn't kn-know that Buffy was turned.  None of them do."

Gunn frowned.  "You didn't tell them?"

She shook her head.  "I d-didn't think it w-was my place."

"Well," Cordelia prompted, "regardless, what does Willow think about reensouling Angel?"

Tara shrugged self-consciously.  "I—um.  We t-took a poll before I left.  Giles, Willow, and me all th-thought that it w-was for the best.  Of course, w-we thought Buffy was still w-with him at the t-time.  But Willow didn't tell me a-anything about having changed h-her mind, even though she's back now."  She glanced down.  "Xander wanted him dead."

The Seer snickered. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"So did Dawnie.  Anya said she d-didn't care. And Joyce is with the Council's physicians.  B-but we put wards around her room…to g-guard her from Glory."  She looked up again.  "They're taking c-care of her t-tumor."

Cordelia frowned.  "Joyce is sick?"

"They think she'll be okay n-now.  Unless s-something…they think she'll be okay."  Tara tossed another apprehensive glance upstairs.  "Are you s-sure we shouldn't check on them?  S-something might've happened—"

"No," Gunn and the Seer voted unanimously.

"But—"

"No."  Cordelia shuddered.  "Spike walked in on me once, and I'm really, _really _not looking to return the favor."

The man's brows perched appraisingly.  "He walked in on you and Zack doing the wonky?"

"That's none of your business."

"He did, didn't he?  You and Wright gave Evil Dead a free—"

The Seer's gaze widened in warning.  "One more word and I'll have the witch turn you into a newt."

Gunn immediately sobered.  "You can do that?" he demanded Tara.

Cordelia nodded emphatically.  It wasn't difficult to catch on.

"Oh, yeah," Tara replied.  "But something might go wrong, and there's no telling if we could turn you back.  Magic's unpredictable that way."

The lack of stutter from her tone should have indicated comfort, but Gunn was effectively silenced.  

The Seer caught the blonde's eye when he wasn't looking to mouth her thanks.  She received a shy grin and a shrug in turn, and was thus satisfied.  

*~*~*

The floor was covered in puddles of water and they had somehow managed to flip to the opposite side of the tub.  Her hands were holding his shoulders for balance that she didn't need, his own having found purchase at her hips as she moved over him in slow, languid strokes.  He once reached up to brush damp locks of hair from her face, smiling and cupping her cheek with unnamed tenderness before his itching fingers slid down the length of her.  Their mingled breaths tainted the air with nothing more—not even a whisper as they came together.  Falling through oblivion only to land where they had started from.  Buffy's sigh of release was almost more pleasing than his name on her lips would have been, and when she moved to rest against his chest, it was the only warmth he cared to know.

The Slayer rested against him for what felt like an eternity, panting softly as his hands skated over her back and drew her hair away from her shoulders.  His touch was so gentle—beyond anything she would ever have credited him capable of.  The feel of his skin against hers was enough to send her reeling through the recesses of any reality.  

Not long had passed since she thought it impossible to ever endure anyone's attentions.  And while she had never doubted her ability to accept Spike's loving caresses, she noticed she was more than antsy when it came to others.  Her time with Angel had taught her to hate human contact.  And yet, without it, she never would have found herself here.

A cold draft settled over her and her eyes darkened.  There was so much out there that she would never have again, but even more that Angel wouldn't.  Should Angel be brought back, she knew that the torment he would face would easily compensate for everything she had suffered.  The knowledge of his malevolent deeds.  How he had so willingly tested her endurance.  How he had resolved himself to get her to scream, no matter the technique.  He had done so much to her.  He had robbed her of more than she was worth, and her body ached at the thought of it.

He could have killed her.  He _would _have.  Whether from the infliction of his hands or his own prescribed notion of raping her death—she would have eventually crumbled.  Every scream that she had kept inside had nearly torn her vocals out, even if it never touched the air.  She was honestly amazed that she still maintained the ability to weep, for he had driven her to tears with a mere look.  A look of promise.  What he intended to do with her.  To her.  Over and over again.  Just because he wanted to.  Because it was a fucking riot.  Because if he could get her to scream, that would jolly well make his day.

Buffy drew herself to an irrevocable inward standstill, hardly aware of the intensity with which Spike held her, as though attuned to her thoughts.  And something occurred to her for the first time.  Something that she suspected was implied, even if its meaning remained guarded under lines of ill recognition.

She was hurt.

But even more than that, she was angry.  

Hell, she was _furious.  _Angel or Angelus, it didn't matter.  Her insides were reaping the consequences of his abuse.  Her body, though healed, still bore the innate marks of torment.  She couldn't stand it.  The stink of his impression upon her.  

As though the weight of the world came crashing down.

He had taken blood from her, and he owed it back.  Rudimentary in theory but no less valid.  Buffy had never considered herself a person bent on vengeance, and while she was still far and away from seizing what she knew she had right to claim, there was something else there.  Something that was hers.

She must have tensed horribly, for Spike's grip on her tightened in turn.  "Buffy?" he murmured softly, rubbing small, soothing circles into her back.  "What's the matter?"

"I know what I want to do."

He paused.  There was no questioning her meaning.  "You do?"

"Yeah."  She pulled back, a weak smile on her lips. She brushed a kiss against his own and enjoyed the shudder that rippled through his body.  Amazing that the slightest touch could affect him.  She hoped that never changed.  "I love you, you know."

A gorgeous smile swept his features.  "Yeh…" he replied shyly.

"Okay."  Buffy smiled back in kind, squeezing her thighs as he hardened within her.  "I tell you, you get a reward for being quiet, okay?"

"What kinda reward?"

She planted a kiss in the hollow of his throat.  "The best kind.  Just don't interrupt me—despite what I say—until I'm done."

"With the explanation or the reward?"

A devious smirk flickered across her face.  "Both."

*~*~*

An indeterminate amount of time later, Spike boomed onto the veranda, gazing out into the foyer.  Every inch of him was bursting with life—the floor felt new under his feet.  An entire day had passed since he last saw any of his colleagues, and for everything good and pure in the world, his mood had never been better.

Not for what he knew, however.  Whatever fears and misplacements he had harbored about Angel were thoroughly eradicated.  He had just had the most incredible night of his life, and existence beyond the horizon, for all the horrible clichés, looked sparkly and new.

And thus, he decided to announce it to his friends.  They deserved to know, after all.

Of course, Spike was never one for convention. 

_"Oh what a beautiful mornin'!"_ he sang loudly, drawing everyone's attention to him with delayed bemusement.  _"Oh what a beautiful day!  I gotta beautiful feelin', everything's goin' my way!" _

"Hey, Casanova!" the Seer shouted in turn, unable to conceal her grin.  "Do you have any earthly idea what time it is?  Here's a hint: not morning."

"Cordelia, you are gorgeous an' intelligent," the vampire observed dismissively before turning his attention to Wright, who looked to have just walked through the door alongside Wesley, Rosie, and Nikki; several cartons of takeout bunched in his grasp.  "Zangy, you are shrewd an' invaluable.  Charlie, you are strappin' an'—"

"Okay," Gunn interrupted, eyes wide.  "Stop it.  That's scary."

"Wes," Spike continued, unabashed, "you are able an' brilliant.  Tara, much too smart for the rest 'f us."

"What about me?" Rosie ventured.

He grinned.  "You, Bit, are the light of my bloody eye."

"I see your scary," Wright muttered to Gunn, "and raise you a 'what the hell'?"

Cordelia shrugged, unmoved.  "He's just happy 'cause he got laid."

"I hate to think how long it's been if he's _this _happy."

"What's got laid?" the child inquired.

Nikki rolled her eyes, grip on her niece tightening as she led her into Wesley's study.  "Oh, real nice," she muttered irately.  "Never mind that I—yes, I—get the fun task of topic avoidance."

Barely a soul noticed their stealthy exit, or the girl's continuous demands.

"It's different with the person you love," Cordelia explained, unhampered.  

"Different, I get."  Gunn tossed the vampire an uneasy glance.  "That's just unnatural."

"What can I say?  'm an unnatural bloke."  Spike nodded to Wright, brows perked.  "You get us the goods?"

"Couple bags of O poz, that work?"

"Jus' a couple?"

The demon hunter grinned.  "Weetabix for you, chocolate for Buff.  I thought you'd work up an appetite."

"Now, that's what I like to hear.  Give us a sec; we'll be right down.  Buffy's come to a decision."

It was amazing how rapidly the casual jollity could plummet throughout the lobby.  The simplest phrase brought them to a crashing halt.

"Very well," Wesley said a minute later.  "Be quick."

"We should wait for Lindsey," Gunn observed.

The former Watcher pursed his lips, unmoved.  "Be quick," he said again.

Spike delivered a mock salute.  "Aye, aye, cap'n." He whirled and retreated without another word, not reacting to the stunned tension wrought through the atmosphere.  Instead, he resumed whistling showtunes, the sound carrying with him for long seconds following his withdraw.  

"Here we go," Cordelia muttered.  

"We don't know what she decided," Wesley observed softly.

"I have three guesses, and all of them are the same thing."

Wright's eyes narrowed.  "Just because you know what _you _would do if you were in her position."

Fire ignited behind her gaze.  "Now just one—"

"Stop," the former Watcher barked.  "No more bickering.  It was getting us nowhere to begin with, thus there's no reason to assume it will help us now.  Buffy is the only one that Angel hurt.  She saw the blunt of his power…felt it firsthand.  What she decides will be honored."

"Yeah," the Seer sneered.  "And she's also the one that doesn't have to deal with the consequences of what she decides.  She gets to go back to her life where Angel's an afterthought.  She decides, Wes, and we're left cleaning up what's left over!  Call me crazy but, that idea doesn't fly well with me."

A stormy gaze set over the former Watcher, but his rebuttal died with the sudden intrusion of the entry doors swinging open and closed again.  With calm, nearly dry harmony, all eyes turned with drained, nearly apathetic observation to the new arrival.  

"Angel an afterthought," Lindsey mused in greeting.  "Sounds heavenly."

Everyone stared at him numbly, beyond the point of comment.

He frowned.  "What?  Have I missed something?"

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-Three: _Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc_…**


	44. Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc

**Chapter Forty-Three**

**Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc**

"Oh, wow," Buffy muttered dismally as Spike guided her into the lobby.  "Everyone is here."  Her eyes settled on Lindsey and darkened, ripples of distaste manifest.  She tensed, her grip on her lover's hand tightening even if she didn't realize it.  "And I do mean everyone."

McDonald nodded with a wry smile, rolling his eyes.  "Great. I'm feelin' the love." 

Cordelia shrugged unsympathetically.  "Well," she drawled, "in all fairness, you were the spokesperson for the evil organization that brought her here in the first place, so you can't blame the girl for not greeting you with a kiss."

"That," Spike agreed, "an' I'd rip his tongue out 'f he tried."

"It's nothing personal," Buffy explained, tone softening.  Her sire tossed her an arched look.  "Well, the kissing thing is, but…no.  Not going there."

"I think you're the only one here who can say that," Wright observed.  

"You wanna mack on Lindsey?" the Seer demanded.

"What?  No!  I meant about it not being personal, and you damn well know it."

Wesley held up a hand, face severe and wrought with limited patience.  "By all means, the bickering can continue after we have reached conclusion.  In the meantime…Buffy, I believe you had something you wanted to share."

Spike's snicker sliced through the air, the protective ambiance he excelled around her unmatched by any force.  "Oh, look.  Mary Poppins 's gonna moderate."

"I beg your pardon."

Gunn's eyes narrowed.  "Wow.  You got grouchy real quick.  Should we postpone the meeting until you get another happy?"

A low growl of warning rumbled through the platinum vampire.  "Watch it."

Cordelia's brows arched appraisingly.  "Well, ten minutes ago, you were cheerful enough that I thought all hope for my friend was lost.  Now, I'm not so sure."

He leered at her.  "Trust me, luv.  'm happy with her decision…whatever the bloody hell you all say."  His chin jutted at Lindsey.  "'E's the one that turned my smile right-side-up again.  No offense, mate.  The lady's jus' not partial to you."

The lawyer shrugged easily.  "None taken."

Buffy smiled softly.  "It's not that—"

"I understand, Ms. Summers.  Believe me.  After what you went through, I'm the last person I'd want to see right now, too."

"This is fascinatin', it really is," Gunn intervened wryly.  "But wasn't there some announcement you wanted to make?"

She nodded.  "I think it's safe to say that I've come up with something that will appease everyone."  Her eyes softened as she considered Wright's discouraging countenance.  "Well…_maybe _everyone."

Lindsey blinked, lost.  "I don't get it," he offered when no one betrayed what was being discussed.  "An announcement?  What's going on?"  

Zack quirked a brow.  "Oh, you haven't heard?" he asked skeptically, nodding at Tara.  "Buffy's friends sent some back up.  They came up with a brilliant strategy.  Namely shoving a soul down Angel's throat and calling it even."

"Now wait—"

The lawyer's eyes widened and he pivoted heatedly to Spike.  "What is this?  I believe we had a deal, and in no way was a soul involved."

The crew on the Angel Investigations payroll glanced at the elder vampire with growing astonishment.  "A deal?" they echoed together.

"Doesn' matter," came the easy retort.  "'S null an' void now."

"No, I really don't think so."

"What is this deal?" Cordelia demanded.  "And why haven't we heard of it?"

Wright stepped forward.  "More importantly…" He leaned into his friend and whispered speculatively.  "Why didn't you tell _me?"_

"It doesn' matter," Spike repeated softly.  "'S over now."

"Like hell it is," Lindsey snarled.

"Just tell us," Buffy returned with a shrug.  "Now I'm curious."

The platinum vampire favored her with a weary glance, turning his eyes to his associates with undisguised annoyance.  "Fine," he conceded.  "Bloody fine.  Jus' no one jump overboard without a bloody lifesaver, all right?  Back when Peaches was still pullin' the torture game, Lindsey offered to help get you out by callin' his friend the Locksmith."

"Gregori," the lawyer agreed, nodding.

"Whatever.  'E was gonna help get you out…an' in turn, I was gonna knock off Angel.  No bloody questions asked."

A still beat of supposition flooded the room.

"Wait for it…" the Cockney muttered under his nonexistent breath.

And in turn, they didn't disappoint.  "SPIKE!" several—way too many to follow—voices hissed in opposition.

"There it is."

"Damn, that sucks," Zack mused.  "We came _so _close."

Spike shook his head.  "Like I said, things change.  We all know it din't go down like that.  So…movin' on."

"No," Cordelia objected heatedly.  "Not moving on.  Where do you get off making deals like that without running it by us first?  Without even telling us?  This is _not _how we do business."

He offered a lazy shrug.  "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And I'm failing to see where it stopped being a good idea," Wright muttered.

Lindsey nodded.  "As am I."

"Because the Slayer doesn' want it to go down like that." 

He might as well have announced that he was pregnant with kittens.  With stunning rapidity, the room swirled to a standstill.  All eyes fell on them with more observation than any could attest to claiming.  

"Buffy…" Wesley said slowly.

"You don't?" Cordelia demanded.

Wright sighed and bristled.  "And here we go…"

Buffy shook her head slowly, grip tightening on Spike's hand. He returned with a reassuring squeeze.  "There were several reasons supporting my decision," she began.  "Mainly…and believe me, I know how petty this is of me, but hey—being tortured for weeks on end can do that to a person…killing him would deny me the satisfaction of letting him feel his well-deserved guilt.  And then he'll get over it, but not really, and you'll have him back…and things will be honky dory."  She sighed and glanced down.  "It's…it's hard, you guys.  Despite everything that happened between me and Angel, I don't want to make him suffer…but another part of me really, really does.  He made me bleed and cry, and he took pleasure in every minute of it.  And really…you know what?  I don't care if it is petty.  Killing him lets him off easy, and even though I'm more than glad he didn't try, he didn't even consider giving me the option."  She glanced up, meeting Tara's shocked gaze.  "I want you to do the curse."

Another still beat settled through the lobby, and all stared at her with blunt astonishment.  

Wright nudged Spike subtly.  "And this is all right with you?"

The vampire shrugged easily.  "Hell, from where I'm standin', she raises a good point.  You don' know Peaches, mate.  The man's gonna torture himself over what 'e's done.  Cheatin' me outta watchin' that…well, 's jus' not right."  His hand clutched the Slayer's even tighter, and he smiled weakly.  "Buffy's too noble to come out an' say she's out for blood without apologizin' for herself.  I'm not.  He hurt my girl.  I wanna see him hurt in turn."

"I'm still not over the 'you offered to kill Angel without telling us' thing," Cordelia growled, eyes darkening.  "We've done nothing but help you since you get here, Spike.  Honestly…"

"Look, it was wrong of me, all right?  I was gonna tell you when it came down to it."  He shrugged once more.  "It din't.  The deal fell through when this wanker let Peaches close enough to kill her."

Lindsey's eyes flared indignantly.  "That wasn't my fault."

"Even so, the deal was your man gets her out, I'll do in Angel.  You din't deliver."

"Lilah came at me with a stun gun."

"An' I respect her for it.  Really.  That must've taken balls."  His gaze brightened with unguarded aversion.  "What'd she do?  Steal yours?"

"Look, there's no point arguin' over this," Gunn intervened sharply.  "Buff came to a decision that doesn't result with Angel bein' dead.  Everyone happy?  Good.  I say we go for it."

"I'm not happy," Lindsey objected.

Wright rolled his eyes.  "And a show of hands of people who care…"

"I'm not, either."  Cordelia's eyes implored the platinum vampire's, ripples of hurt quaking her body.  To her credit, she hid the notion very well, but it was easy to tell that her resentment went well beyond being out of the loop.  She was genuinely affronted that he wouldn't have trusted her with such information.  That he would have kept her—out of all people—uninformed.  

And it was that knowledge that lent the vampire ultimate pause.  His eyes softened and a long, tempered sigh wrangled itself from his lips.  "Look, pet," he said gently.  "'m sorry I din't tell you.  I really am.  'S jus', at the time, I din't think there was a stone's throw we'd get Buffy outta there without…I jus' din't think it possible.  I was willin' to make any deal.  An' all things considered, the wanker din't ask much."

"No," Lindsey agreed.  "I didn't."  He paused for a confused minute.  "I am the wanker, right?"

"You better bloody well believe it."  He smirked and turned his attention back to the brunette.  "It was unfair of me, an' I admit that.  But I wasn' about to let Peaches get away with what he was hankerin' to get away with.  Understand?  I couldn't jus' let him…'f that's what it took, that's what I was gonna do."

It was a continuous game of catch; the same that maintained the bulk of attention as the players threw the ball back and forth.  For long, seemingly endless seconds, Cordelia held her ground: firm and resolute.  The picture of conviction.  It was only when Wright clamped his hand on Spike's shoulder in tacit semblance of moral support that she jarred herself to answer, realizing belatedly that everyone was looking at her with the same expectation.

"All right," she murmured.  "Did I not say all right?  Really, Spike, _that _I get.  I just don't understand why you didn't tell us to begin with."

He had nothing to offer outside a sheepish shrug.  "I din't know how you'd react," he explained.  "I jus' wanted her out, an' that plan was bullets better than yours."

There was no sense in arguing with that.  She merely smiled.

"After she was sired," Spike concluded, "it din't seem to matter.  So I dropped it…an' that's why you're only hearin' about it now."

"Well, you shouldn't have," Lindsey intervened.  "Dropped it.  We had a deal."

The platinum vampire rolled his eyes.  "Oh come on, you ninny.  You're a bloody lawyer.  These are the type of loopholes your kind look for.  You din't deliver, an' sod the reasonin', in my an' everyone else's book, that means I don' owe you squat."

McDonald conceded a sigh and glanced down, caressing the bridge of his nose with his forefingers.  "Then why do I feel like I just got screwed with my pants on?"

"'Cause you did," Cordelia explained.  "It's called us getting our own back."

"And we're back to the Lilah chick having all the balls," Wright sneered.

Lindsey shot him a particularly nasty glare.  "You have something to say?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"Just lay off, the both of you," the Seer barked.  "There was no way we could have made everyone happy with this decision, so deal."

Gunn grinned wryly.  "Notice how she says this after she gets the answer she was waiting for."

The former Watcher stepped forward, gaze intent on the Slayer.  The look on his face betrayed the patience of one whom had had more than enough experience ignoring his colleagues when they went on erratic tangents.  Somehow in the mix of everything, he had found himself named the unofficial instigator, and with that came a certain measure of responsibility.  "Buffy," he said softly.  "This is what you want.  Are you certain?"

"Yes."

Spike squeezed her hand again.

"He put you through a great deal—"

"Yeah," she retorted with a nod.  "And I intend to give it right back.  I want him to feel it."  There was a heavy silence before she exhaled the breath she had been holding subconsciously, tossing a wane smile to her sire.  "Angel…it's complicated.  Well, not nearly as complicated as it should be.  I know he and Angelus aren't one in the same.  I know.  Believe me, I took Soul Searching For The Undead 101 and passed with flying colors.  But…his face…his…those were his hands that touched me."  A palpable shudder coursed through her, and she took an intuitive step toward the platinum Cockney in turn.  "It was Angelus, but there was enough Angel there for me to never, ever forget."  She drew a tight breath for composure.  "I'm the Slayer.  I'm used to dealing with otherworldly things.  What he did to me was _not_ otherworldly."

Lindsey nodded, his eyes growing distant with shades of remembrance.  "He wasn't a vampire with you," he said.  "He was just a…maniac.  I saw that.  I'm just…I'm sorry I didn't do more when I should have."

A tight air seized the Slayer—brief but effective.  Her gaze foretold that she acknowledged the fault in his countenance was palpable but existed only within the range of what her colleagues would like to claim.  Despite what anyone said, the lawyer had done his best within reason to help her, and she knew that such came with great personal risk.  The same he had taken at his own expense for her welfare. "I know," she replied.  "And…thanks.  But you're right.  He wasn't a vampire.  He was…"

"Shades of Buffalo Bill, from what I heard," Cordelia agreed when the Slayer didn't find her voice.  "Girl, no one blames you for being out for blood.  I just don't think that Angel should be held accountable for something he didn't technically do.  He's our friend.  Beneath everything nasty, he's our friend."

She nodded.  "He was mine, too.  I just…I don't want to be anywhere near him for a long, _long _time.  I don't want him to tell me he's sorry.  I don't want to see him in pain.  I don't want to know what he's thinking or feeling or even that he's feeling at all.  Maybe in a couple hundred years, I'll be over it.  But not now."

"I assure you," Wesley said softly.  "As long as you are here, Angel will not be welcome."

"Thank you."

Spike's breath caught in his throat, but the move was too subtle for even her to notice.  It struck him as odd when she referred to the long-term future so flippantly, and while such incidents were few and far between, he couldn't help but wonder if she knew exactly how long two hundred years was.  Hell, he hadn't even been around for a hundred fifty.  And yes, while seeing that far ahead did not merit a check in the impossible column, she had no way of knowing how slowly time moved for those who knew how to keep track.  As the Slayer, she had known her own time to be precious and limited.  Now she had forever.

Forever.

He had given her forever.

From one extreme to the other.  There was never any fucking middle ground.   

"Do you at least want to be with him?" Tara intervened softly.  "When I…wh-when I d-do the spell, I mean.  He's…Willow told me—"

"No," Buffy answered shortly. "Again with the petty, but hey, score one for apathy from the tortured girl.  Angel might deserve better, but not from me."  She turned her eyes to Cordelia.  "Ergo, I will not begrudge anyone who decides to…you know…hold his hand."

Wright cleared his throat.  Sharply.

The Seer flashed him a smile.  "Oh, I dunno.  It is mightily tempting."

Spike swore he saw red flash behind the demon hunter's eyes, but he knew Cordelia well enough to attest her behavior to cruel albeit humorous jest.  While she might campaign her heart out in support for Angel's return, she wasn't ready to step up to the plate yet, either.  

In all honesty, he was trying hard to smother the giddy part that screamed its congratulations to his friend in finding someone to love again.  When they had become so in tune to each other, he didn't know.  Wright was the first male friend he could claim in…ever.  Not a minion, not an accomplice—though he on occasion had filled those shoes as well—and, most importantly, not an opponent in the testosterone combative fields for a woman's affections.  

It was the little things that brought his gratitude to Zangy to earth.

"Okay," Gunn said, rubbing his hands together as though trying to generate fire.  "So that settles Angel.  We bring him back, he broods, ya'll leave, he moves back in, broods some more, and some time in the year 2015, we get back to work.  Thank you, next please.  Let's talk Darla and Dru."

The demon hunter's eyes flared. "Darla's mine."

"Funny, you keep sayin' that."

"Yeah.  If you haven't noticed, I've had a spot of bad luck in finding the bitch.  I want her dead, and I wanna do it."  

Lindsey tensed slightly, but no one was paying attention.  And he did not offer objection.  

"So, here's the hypothetical," Cordelia said, backing up to hoist herself onto the counter.  "You find Darla.  You kill her.  You take immense, orgasmic pleasure in the aforementioned killing of her.  That's over with.  And the next words in your vocab reach somewhere along the lines of, 'What now?'  Is that it?"

Wright frowned at her.  "I don't…what are you saying?"

Gunn rolled his eyes.  "Are you gonna bail on us, man?  You know, the entire: 'I hate to bust in, stay, stay a little longer, stake and run'?"

A blank look overwhelmed the hunter's features.  He had not thought that far.

He had not allowed himself to think that far in a long time.

"I…I…"

"You know," Buffy began coyly, nudging Spike forward so that he moved with her.  "Just to drop my point two, you got a helluva cute kid in that office, most likely enduring the sloppiest version of the birds and the bees, from what I've seen of Nikki."

He grinned and tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"And she deserves a nice, solid home."

There was nothing for a minute.  Then the Slayer elbowed her companion, who belatedly realized his cue.

"Oh, erm, right."  The peroxide vampire nodded emphatically.  "The Bit's a good girl, an' 'f you don' want her to turn into…well…you."

Wright grinned wryly.  "Thanks."

He earned a shrug in turn.  "'S only love I feel, Zangy."

"Yeah, I can tell."

Gunn grinned tightly to himself.  "Well," he began, nodding at Wesley.  "We've been talkin', and we think we got the 'what now?' thing covered.  Provided your cool with it and everything."

"Yeah," Cordelia concurred, smacking her lips together, eyes twinkling devilishly.  "This only works, by the by, if you're gonna be able to contain yourself in the handling of Angel."

"We're not gonna let him back in as Boss Man."

"That's totally Wes's territory now."

"I want everyone to know," the former Watcher intervened, holding up a hand, "that I had absolutely nothing to do with that part.  Rather, Gunn and Cordelia forcibly assumed that I would revel in maintaining a leadership position."

The Seer smirked.  "Oh, whatev.  You're doing an inner happy dance, and you know it."  She turned back to Wright.  "And, seeing as you were our bookman's inspiration and all…we think it should be a partnership."

The entire lobby drew to an unbelievable standstill.

Zack blinked stupidly.  "I'm…I…could you…what?"

A wicked smile crossed her face and she hopped back down, crossing the foyer slowly.  "You really think I'm gonna let you scamper away?  Ahem—hell no.  And don't look twice, but Spike here'd go through withdrawal if you were to up and disappear.  But he's way too manly to admit it."

"Way," Buffy agreed.

The vampire in question scowled at her.  She merely smiled unrepentantly.    

"You…you want me…to…" The befuddled look on his face was truly priceless.  "I…you two have been here so much longer than…and I'm not even on your payroll, and…" He glanced to Gunn and Wesley with growing skepticism.  "Have you thought this through?"

The former nodded.  "It was English's idea.  He says you're the best of the best, bro, and so far, he hasn't spoken a lie."

"So those cracks about Darla earlier were—"

Gunn shrugged.  "I was humoring myself."

Wright glanced back to the whole of them.  If incredulity were a tangibility, he would have been floored with it.  "You really want me to…you want to _work _for _me?"_

"Well, the ideal word is 'with'.  Technically, you and Wes would fill the big shoes, but we're more like a family thing.  But there would be money."  Cordelia tilted her head.  "And if we thought we'd be remotely successful, we'd try to recruit Spike, too, but he's so totally going wherever Buffy goes."

"Yeh," the vampire agreed.  _"Totally."_

"It sounds like a really great idea," Tara said with a weak smile before glancing down.  "S-sorry, I d-don't even know you."

Wright was still staring at the Seer in disbelief.  "You really wanna keep me here?"

That was all it took.  A wave of defense flashed over her without warning, and she bristled.  "You?  Nah.  It's not about you.  But if you even try to take that child of yours away from me, I'll hire Wolfram and Hart to find some assuredly illegal—not to mention implanted—way to give me custody.  Then you'd have to stay.  For Rosie and all."

He domed a brow.  "For Rosie."

"Rosie, Nikki, the Barbies.  Everything."

He paused, making a face.  "Maybe not Nikki.  She really should go back to school."

"Agreed."

"Preferably somewhere very far away."

Lindsey cleared his throat suddenly, drawing the focus back without much competition.  "This is riveting, it is.  But I have a sick police officer to take care of, so I'm going to be on my way."  He glanced to Wesley.  "You'll call me when this is over?"

"You can be assured," he replied.  "And you keep in touch…should any sources leak information to you about…anything."

McDonald snorted sardonically.  "That's not happening.  It's a nice thought, but it's not happening."

"Nevertheless…"

"Nevertheless, I'll keep in touch."  He turned his attention briefly to the display in the center of the lobby and gestured broadly.  "Good luck sorting everything out."

There was nothing for a long minute following his departure.  Fortunately, Wright had enough self-control to refrain from commenting until he knew the other man was well outside earshot.  With a cocky grin, he turned back to Cordelia, nodding absently at the door.  "If I stay, will I have to put up with that asshole?"

"Lindsey's not too bad…once you get to know him."  She made a face.  "Unfortunately, I haven't reached that second stage yet."

Spike raised his hand with a dry smile.  "Ummm, I got a quick quibble.  'F Zangy stays, an' really—all for that—what 'appens when Peaches comes off his soddin' guilt trip an' wants his job back."

Gunn shrugged.  "He gets it."

"Just a very degraded version of 'it'," Cordelia acknowledged.  "As in, not in charge."

"Never gonna be in charge."

Wesley nodded dismally, removing his glasses in a manner that was much too Gilesy for anyone who knew the elder Watcher remotely well.  "Had we captured the pattern of his destructive behavior in the first place," he said softly, "this entire mess could have been averted."

Buffy's brows arched at that.  "What?  You could've made Wolfram and Hart leave his soul in there because he'd had a better day than planned?"

"She's right," the platinum vampire agreed.  "What 'appened can be blamed on a lot of people.  No one in this room qualifies."  He lent himself strange pause at that, a long hiss whistling through his teeth.  "'Cept those that don' count as human, of course."

The Slayer's eyes narrowed.  "Spike…"

He shrugged.  "'m jus' sayin'—"

"It wasn't your fault.  I might be a dense fake-blonde, but I do remember the bargy-inness that was you the night that Darla did the snatch thing."  She smiled softly, resting her chin at his shoulder.  "We gave you the blow off, and you did what anyone would've.  Stop. Blaming. Yourself."

"Y-you really did," Tara spoke up, ducking down again when she drew everyone's attention.  "I-I remember.  Really.  A-and then with the coming in after she was gone.  Y-you've done everything you c-could, Spike."

A small smile tickled his face.  "Comin' from you, Glinda, that means a lot."

Buffy scowled and punched his shoulder.

"Ow!  Watch it there, pet.  It wasn' as though your jabs din't hurt _before."_

"So," she continued, ignoring him completely, "it means a lot coming from her?  Hello!  I've been telling you that ever since I woke up, all Night of the Living Buffy."

His smile widened, despite the innate sadness that coincided with any such reminder.  "Trust me, luv. You have the power to break me with every breath.  Everythin' you do an' say means more to me than you can imagine." He leaned inward, nibbling lightly on her lips before breaking away in remembrance that the crowd likely wasn't one to appreciate public displays of affection.  Yet.  

Of course, Wright, Cordelia, and Gunn had gotten quite a show the day before, if memory served.

And evidently, they weren't looking for a repeat.

Cordelia snickered, effectively breaking their spell.  "You two can make with the lovey-dovey later.  Behind closed doors.  Right now, I want an answer."  She arched a brow at Zack.  "Well?"

"Come on, man," Gunn said encouragingly.  "Stay.  You gotta admit, you're one of us now."

The demon hunter grinned his amusement.  Though his answer was written plainly in his eyes, everyone seemed to need verbal verification before breaking open any champagne.  "I don't know…" he mused.  "Can we rename it Wright Investigations?"

Spike laughed aloud.  "Oh, that's bloody rich.  I can already see the new slogans.  'Where everythin' is done the Wright way.'"

Buffy grinned and jumped aboard.  "'We'll do the job Wright, or your money back.'"

"'The Wright people working for the Wright cause,'" Tara added.  She blushed and looked down when her comment earned several chuckles.  "Again…s-sorry.  I r-really, don't know you."

The demon hunter shrugged good-naturedly.  "Ah, don't worry about it.  You know, any friend of…yadda yadda yadda."

"And God said, 'Let there be Wright.'"  The amusement died as a sea of blank stares found their way once again to Wesley's regard.  He glanced down with false indignation.  "Are we not doing this anymore? …I thought it was funny."

"That's because you're a Dork—the kind with a capital 'D'."  The Seer pivoted back to Zack imploringly.  "And, no, not with the renaming.  You have any idea how long it took Angel Investigations to establish a clientele basis?  So not going there again."

"You drive a hard bargain."

She shrugged.  "I try."

"'F I may…" Spike said, waving a little.  "An' this is to be in no way taken as a sign that I like you."  That comment earned several snickers—no such proof was required.  "But really, 'f you need any more persuasion than the bubbly girl in front of you, you're even denser than I thought."

The brunette beamed at him.  "Thanks!"

"Don' mention it, luv."

A warm smile crept over his rugged, unshaven face.  "All right, all right.  You win.  Where do I sign?"

"Hurrah!" Tara cheered uncertainly, giving a small wave of approval.  The movement earned a glowing smile from those returning with her to Sunnydale.  The girl was so shy and the situation so awkward, but she was making the best out of it.

Cordelia, however, was otherwise preoccupied.  She squealed and threw her arms around the demon hunter, swaying with him in light of her merriment.  "I promise you won't regret this."

"She'll probably give you a good reason not to," Gunn added with a wink.

Wright shrugged, tightening his arms around her.  "Hey, this is the first PDA I've gotten in two days.  I'll take it."

"Very good, then," Wesley said with a definitive nod.  "All is set."  He turned his attention to the Witch and offered a kind smile.  "If there is nothing else, it would be best we should get to the first item of business.  And, unless I am off schedule, I believe we have a curse to cast."

To be continued in Chapter Forty-Four: _The House's Fall_… 


	45. The House's Fall

**Chapter Forty-Four**

**The House's Fall**

Zack Wright had always considered himself an able father, if nothing else.  Someone who was there for his daughter when she needed him at all possible turns.  Like many before, work drove him away from the dinner table on numerous occasions, and while he lamented not being with her for every waking minute of her day, he never considered himself negligent or absentee.  He knew Rosalie well—Rosalie, with her mother's eyes and her forward insight.  He knew her favorite movie was still _The Little Mermaid _and that she liked pickles with her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  He knew that she couldn't sleep unless she had her faithful bedmate—Dr. Haller, the panda bear—snuggled into her side.  He knew that she was more adult than most adults.  And he knew that he would die protecting her.

He loved his daughter more than life itself.  And for the first time in seven years, it occurred to him how thoroughly unfair he had been to her.  More than a passing whim.  More than a simple acknowledgement that managed to surface its way into his conscious before he banished it once more. Before it could drive him into serious retrospection.  Without complaint, she had followed him faithfully for more than half her life, watching as he returned home late covered in demon guts.  Getting out of bed earlier than any willing child he had ever seen to make him coffee before he left for the day, just so she could spend some time with him.  He had never known a nine year old that made coffee, and certainly not one that made it as well as she did.  

Rosie was smart.  Frighteningly smart.  What little school she did attend, she was often outcast by her peers for her intelligence.  They called her a freak and ignored her at recess.  They avoided her during the lunch hour and never picked her for classroom games.  The tests she took were never blemished with anything outside her handwriting and a sticker at the top to solidify her genius.  And true, while life on the move did not allot much time in the mainstream of public education, her reputation seemingly preceded her from any such territory.  

And yet, beneath it all, she was still a little girl.  A little girl who loved Disney and Barbies and all things of the Muppet-nature.  She was a born Star Wars fan with an unhealthy fascination with Jabba the Hutt and a crush on Han Solo.  She loved pizza and pasta and fried rice and had, at some point, developed an affinity for Springfield Style Cashew Chicken.  

She was a little girl.  A little girl whom had been denied a normal life.  And though no one aside Nikki directly placed him at any blame, he knew that had he not lost himself to vengeance, he would have seen to his daughter with more care.  He would have her in a proper school where she picked up math instead of self-defense.  

She had once intervened with a gang of boys on the schoolyard who were getting into a brawl.  When their strategy to pretend she didn't exist failed to succeed, the boys turned their attention to her in blatant disregard for the 'don't hit, but if you do, especially don't hit girls' policy that remained the unbroken code among children.  The teacher later told Zack that she had never seen anything like it.  One minute Rosie was standing there as they advanced, and the next, the ground was littered with them.  One child even suffered a broken nose.  

He had scolded her, of course.  That hadn't been appropriate, especially for school.

Deep down, though, he was proud.

Damn proud.  That was his girl.  And it served those little bullies right that they got their own.  His Rosie had defeated the monsters that lurked in her closet and under the bed, not to mention served as a helpful hand in dark allies.  She was too small to attribute her abilities on a level of physicality, but like her father, she had impeccable aim with a crossbow.

And now—now—for the first time since Amber died, they had a home.

For the first time since Amber died, Rosie had someone she could regard as a mother.

For the first time since Amber died, he had solace.  He had a home, a job, and friends again.  And he had Cordelia.

It was time to dim out some of those darker shadows.  They had been following him for too long.

Unlike most children, Rosie similarly lacked the habit of ritualistically marking her territory with an abundance of belongings wherever she went.  She kept everything she had—most especially Dr. Haller and her now infamous doll collection—well hidden from forthright view.  Now, as he pushed her bedroom door open, a smile warmed his heart.  She was sitting cross-legged with her back to him, combing one of her obnoxiously pink Barbie brushes through a smooth tug of bleached hair.  

The picture of feigned innocence.  His girl was sweet, but she held her own.

And well.

He leaned casually in the doorway, folding his arms athwart his chest.  His girl.  If nothing else, he was the luckiest bastard in the world.

That was a thought he hadn't felt himself worthy of in years.

"Whatcha doing there, Rosie Posy?"

The girl didn't start at the intrusion of his voice.  Rosie was not a child that found herself often taken aback.  If he was there, she knew.

It always made a trial of surprises.

"Brushing Natasha's hair."

She had different names for all her dolls.  Ever since her first, she had always assumed a moniker far from that which so casually graced so many of the blonde beauties.  To her, the term _Barbie_ was synonymous with _race_.  Each addition was another member of the _Barbie _society—likely from the country _Barbitiana.  _When someone tried to correct her in this manner, she politely refused their input.  From where she came from, no one looked alike and bore the same name.

And each had a different personality.  

Wright nodded appraisingly, indulging a few steps inward.  "Big party tonight?"

"Wilma-Jean and Rex are getting married."

Long ago, Zack had consigned himself to the reality that he could not memorize each of her possessions by name, face, and character.  Nevertheless he tried and likewise failed admirably.  "Big thing, huh?"

"Ginger might be angry.  Or Kyrian."  She shrugged.  "He's a vampire."

The grin faded from his lips just as easily, a cold, gray sensation flooding his veins.  Enough to make any man freeze in his tracks.  It wasn't an unusual occurrence.  Hell, it was hardly that.  Rosie lived in a world where monsters weren't monsters—they were a breed apart.  But it bothered him.  It bothered him that she couldn't even bring herself to forfeit reality in the comfort of her sanctuary.  And yet, that was the sort of child she was.  She didn't endorse lies to protect herself, nor did she understand the unspoken implication that she should.

_One summer, long ago, stopping to buy her an ice-cream cone on one of those rare days when he could devote his time to her.  When he wasn't following some inane lead or trifling himself away with the life he had so long ago sold his soul to.  "So, Rosie Posy…what do _you _want to be when you grow up?"_

_There was nothing for a long, cold minute.  She nibbled absently at her cone, catching a dribble of vanilla before it splattered to the sidewalk.  And then, as though it was the most accepted thing in the world, she gazed up to him with her mother's eyes and whispered, "Alive."_

They never spoke of that day.

For so long, they had lived out of suitcases.  They had referred to the Motel 6 as home.  She had been enrolled and withdrawn from too many schools.  She had no friends to comfort her.  And the Powers That Be had encompassed her with the Sight.  The Sight that had stolen her innocence.

But it was he whom had robbed her of her childhood.

It was never too late to fix things.  

"Rosie," Wright said softly, coming around so that he could sit across from her.  "Honey, something's happened."

Her large eyes met his expectantly.  

He flashed a loving smile and leaned inward to caress her forehead with his lips. "Do you like it here, Peach-Tree?"

She nodded, smiling in turn.  "Yeah.  Cordy's nice and likes you a lot."  She turned her eyes to the ground.  "I like Uncle Spike, too.  Is that okay?"

A frown befell his face.  "Of course it's…what did you call him?"

"Uncle Spike.  He said I should."

Oh, perfect.

"Why did he tell you that?  Did he say?"

"He told me uncles were supposed to watch after their nieces and make sure that nothing bad ever happened to them."  She shrugged ingenuously again.  "And that he would never let anything bad happen to me, so I should call him my Uncle Spike."

Zack's eyes narrowed at her.  "When have you had time to talk to Spike?"

"I talked to him when you were with Cordy."  Rosie pursed her lips thoughtfully.  "Is Cordy going to be my new mother?"

His gaze widened in disbelief and he nearly fell back without having the added benefit of losing his balance.  "What?"

"You want to stay here with her."  

Despite the fact that she had been doing that since birth, it was still a freaky trait.

"And Nikki said that you and she got laid, and that was something mommies and daddies do.  So, I thought…"

A coughing fit interrupted whatever it was that she thought.  

Nikki was _so _toast.

Rosie paused thoughtfully.  "Since Uncle Spike and Buffy got laid, does that mean that they're gonna have a baby?"

That was it.  He had to put an end to this before it got even more out of hand.  "Sweetpea, I—"

"Since you and Cordy got laid, does that mean _she _will have a baby?"

Wright blinked at her.  "What _has _she been telling you?"

"Not much.  She told me getting laid was something mommies and daddies do that makes them have babies."  Rosie turned her eyes back to her dolls, her innocence too much for him.  "Then she said that it was not fair for her to play with the question in a field and to go upstairs.  So I did."

Play with a question in…  "Honey, did she say 'field this question'?"

"Yeah.  That's what she said."  She glanced up again.  "So what does it mean?"

"I…uhhh…it's not fair for me to field this question, either."

"Should I ask Uncle Spike?"

Oh God.  Knowing him, he would give her a straight answer before it occurred to him that such was not his place.

"No!  I mean—uhhh—ask me again…in…ten years.  I'll tell you then."

Rosie arched a suspicious brow.  "You'll be able to field it in ten years?"

Zack paused, exchanged a long, knowing look with her, and shrugged with a sheepish smile.  "Make it twenty?"

There was a lengthy moment of consideration, and she cocked her head at him, eyes growing large with misgiving.  "It's something only grown-ups know about, right?"

Yeah.  In an ideal society.  With as clever as she was, he reckoned he was lucky to have eluded the dreaded Talk for even this long.  It was his fortune that Rosie preferred films to television, and that he was privileged to censor everything before subjecting it to his daughter's eyes.

He cocked his head in turn.  "Is there any way I can get out of this conversation?"

"Well…" With breezing innocence, she turned her attention back to her dolls.  "I know that you want to stay with Cordy…I just don't know if we are or not."  There was another silence; even though she kept her eyes glued to the plastic in her hands, he could feel the burn of her gaze as thoroughly as any other.  "Are we staying here with Cordy?"

There it was.  Cards on the table.  Sometimes, it killed him that she was the adult in this relationship.  She had such freedom and no sense of restraint.  She could ask the tough questions without fronting the façade of fearing the answer.

"How do you feel about that?"

Rosie glanced up to him sharply.  There must have been something in his voice; her eyes were glowing with radiance that was so raw on her, it stole his breath.  "Stay here with Charlie and Wes, and Cordy, too?  I want to, Dad.  I really, really want to."

Relief flooded through him.  He had known, of course, but hearing her say that sweetened the deal all the more.

"Really?"

She nodded enthusiastically.  "I just wish Uncle Spike and Buffy could stay, too.  But they really have to go away?"

Wright clamped his teeth down on the inside of his cheek.  He really was going to have to put a stop to this 'Uncle Spike' business.

But then, looking at her shining face, he presumed there was no harm in it.  What little he had seen between the vampire and his daughter proved more than enough that he loved the girl.  If this was his way to emphasize that, he had no place to put something that gave them both joy to a halt.

"Yeah, sweetie.  They do.  Buffy has a mom and a sister in a town not too far from here, and she loves them very, very much."  He smiled warmly at her heartfelt disappointment, knowing instantly that she coveted what they had, even if she would never say it.  And he would do his best to give her more of the same.  "And since…_Uncle_ Spike loves Buffy, he's gonna go where she goes."

Rosie nodded slowly.  "But…he'll come back to visit…right?"

"Oh, you bet.  And if he slacks off and doesn't come around for a while, we'll go see him.  Deal?"

That was all it took.  She was smiling again.  "Deal."  With a cheerful hum, she turned her attention back to her dolls, holding up the two he assumed were Wilma-Jean and Rex.  "Is Cordy going to be mom?" she asked again.  "Since we're staying and you two have gotten laid—" Despite all, he couldn't help from choking at the words escaping the lips of his darling daughter.  She tossed him a glance that gave him the horrible notion that she had done it on purpose.  "—is she going to be my new mom?"

Now, _there _was a question.  A damn scary one at that.  He hated the term 'new mom'; it implied that Amber was easily replaced, and she wasn't.  He felt the burn of her loss every day.  Everything she had wanted for Rosie.  All the plans she had made for the future.  The way she lovingly caressed her stomach in anticipation of their second.

The way she hung from the wall in the den, open and bleeding.

Dead.

Amber had been naïve; he had as well.  

He wasn't anymore.  And Cordelia was the furthest thing from naïve that he could find.  And she wasn't like Amber at all.  Where Amber had been submissive, Cordelia was bold.  Where Amber had been sweet and soft-tempered, Cordelia was radiant and opinionated.  Where Amber's touch had set him aflame, Cordelia's left him to sizzle.

He and Amber had been high school sweethearts—on and off through the early years and steady toward the end.  He had never known another woman until he met Cordelia.

It was said not to happen twice, and for the longest time, he had believed it.  After he lost his wife, there had been nothing for him.  It would have been easy to lose himself in women and booze, but he hadn't.  Cordelia was the first after Amber, and with her, the impossible had happened.

It hit him then—unprecedented.  A flying swoop out of the big blue.  Somewhere from the pits of realization, a conjured image to strike him between the eyes.  There on the floor of the room both he and his daughter had come to think of as hers.  There, surrounded by her toys.  There, with her large eyes watching him patiently.  The epitome of someone just dying to scream, 'I know something you don't know.'

And she did.  But he knew now, too.  And it blew him away.

He was in love with Cordelia.

He was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-fucking-percent-in-love with Cordelia.  With everything about her.  From her attitude to her warmth to the way she could make him squirm simply by reading a magazine.  He was in love with her.  In love with her in a way that he had never been with Amber.  Neither weaker nor stronger: different and beautiful.  He loved her completely.

Fucking Christ, how had _this_ happened?  

Never had he suspected himself possible for caring for another woman in his lifetime. And furthermore, he had always known that even if some invisible line were crossed, he would never, _ever_ call it love.

Of course, just weeks before, he had told Spike that they would never be friends.  And now his daughter was calling him _uncle._

He, Zack Wright, was in love with Cordelia.  And he was _not _the sort of man to take that lightly.  

Slowly, he brought himself to awares and turned his attention back to his expectant child.  With a thin, nearly timid smile, he took Wilma-Jean, Rex, and Natasha from her grasp and set them before him.

"I'm gonna try to explain this, okay?"

She nodded.  "Okay."

He held up Rex.  "Pretend this is me."

Rosie beamed and waved at the doll.  "Hi, Daddy!"

A grin tickled his lips.  He reached for Natasha.  "Pretend this is your mother…sans the hair and the figure and the every-man's-fantasy."

She looked at him quizzically.

"Not that your mom wasn't perfect," he corrected.  "But Barbie—"

"That's _Natasha."  _

"Sorry.  _Natasha…_no _real _woman looks like Natasha, okay?  These are impossible self-esteem-blowing standards that Mattel oughta be sued for.  Unless women have had work or throw-up every day, they don't look like this.  Believe me, I know."  When her bewilderment didn't diminish, he sighed, cursed himself for opening his mouth and inserting his foot, and continued.  "Anyway, pretend Natasha is your mom."

She nodded solemnly.

He reached for Wilma-Jean.  "This is Cordy, okay?"

"Cordy has brown hair."

"So did your mom."

"And it's short."

He nodded patiently.  "Yeah, it is."

Rosie tilted her head to the side, pondering studiously.  "Cordy looks more like the doll than Mom did.  Does that mean she's had work or throws-up?"

Wright pondered scouring the room for a hole to crawl into.  In the Hyperion, such a thing might be easy to find.  "Can I pay you never to mention this conversation to anyone?"

"So I shouldn't ask Cordy—"

"I swear, I will hang you upside down from your toes for a week if you do."

She giggled playfully, encouraging a smile of his own.  "You wouldn't."

"You're right.  You caught me.  Just don't ask Cordy."

A shrug.  "Okay."

Wright held out for a moment, considering.  "Also, don't tell her that I used a doll you named 'Wilma-Jean' to represent her in this little charade."

Another shrug, though she was smiling this time.  "Okay."

"Okay."  He let out a deep breath before returning his attention to his demonstration.  "Okay, so this is me.  And this is your mom.  Your mom and I had you, and we both love you very much."

"Mom, too?"

"Wherever she is, pumpkin, she loves you."  Zack felt his eyes misting and a lump rising in his throat.  The years hadn't been kind to him, and he had never felt the urge to sit down and discuss his late wife with Rosie.  There were things she wanted to know; things she deserved to know.  Things he couldn't mention without losing himself.  And yes, while it still hurt, the wound was finally nearing completion in the healing process, even if he suspected the skin over it would forever remain red and tender.  "But then your mom went away," he continued, placing Natasha to the side.  "And it hurt Dad for a long time.  Dad took you and Nikki—" He nastily fumbled until he found a Stacy and Skipper doll to maintain the enactment's livelihood.  "—and he was never the same.  He did things he's not proud of, and eventually became someone that wasn't even…he became someone else.  Someone even your mom wouldn't approve of.  The day that Mom went away, Dad went away, too.  He just couldn't do it the way she had."  

It wasn't until he felt Rosie's small hand covering his own that he realized he was trembling, and that the mist in his eyes had transformed into tears.  

But for the life of him, he didn't know whom he was crying for.

It took a minute to locate his voice, and when he did, it was hoarse and full with emotion he hadn't thought himself possible of feeling anymore.  "Since Dad couldn't go away with your mom," he continued, "he tried to run away from everything else.  He went and killed demons, taught you and Nikki to do the same.  And while he still loved you more than anything in the whole wide world, he was very lost.  He kept trying to run away, but every time he found some place new, what he was running from would catch him.  Then, one day, he met a vampire named Spike."

Rosie obediently handed him Kyrian.

"And though Dad and Spike didn't get along at first…" He did a poor imitation of the two dolls trying to kill each other.  "…eventually, they decided that they should try to put their differences aside.  And then, something strange happened.  Spike introduced Dad to Cordelia.  And then something _stranger_ happened.  That part of Dad that had been lost for so long? …well, she found it.  She found it and gave it back to him.  She and Spike and all their friends…they reminded Dad what he had been missing out on.  And while Dad still misses Mom very much…Cordelia…she…she makes it…she makes him Dad again.  She makes Dad feel…well…she makes him _feel.  _She and her stupid little magazines and her stupid cappuccino with two percent, whipped cream and chocolate shavings, and her stupid vamp-sponsorship, and her stupid—"

"Stop."

Wright frowned.  "Why?"

"Because Cordy's right behind me."

He froze before timidly raising his eyes, knowing she spoke the truth and damning himself for not noticing her in the first place.  

His gaze hit home and he couldn't help suppress the moan that rose to his lips.

"Oh, fuck."

The Seer beamed at him.  "That's exactly what you're not getting, buster."  Her countenance darkened.  "And don't use that language in front of her!"

"It's okay," Rosie recited.  "I've heard it before."

Her eyes narrowed.  "How many times a day do you say that, hon?"

"Four or five."

"Right!" In an instant, Zack had bolted to his feet, plastering a forced smile to his face and moving heatedly for the door.  "I'm going downstairs now.  You two have fun."

Grinning deviously, Cordelia winked at his daughter before entwining her arm with his.  "I'll walk you.  Tara's done with the curse.  We're all just sort've waiting now."  

"I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

"You better believe it."

He had no idea the depth of aforementioned trouble, but she didn't leave him guessing for long.  They barely made it halfway down the corridor before she abruptly stopped and shoved him against the wall, covering his mouth with hers with such ardent frenzy that it made him weak in the knees.  They dueled for long seconds until the breathing thing got in the way, forcing them apart for a few still beats.  Then their eyes met and before they knew it, they were going in for seconds.

"Mmm," Wright murmured against her.  "Not that I'm complaining, but—"

"Rosie didn't tell you how long I was in the doorway."  Cordelia pulled back with a warm smile, brushing a kiss over his cheek.  "You're really the sweetest man I've ever met."

"Hey—"

"Well…" She paused thoughtfully.  "Maybe except for Spike."

"HEY!"

She merely grinned, thoroughly unrepentant.  "So, Rosie's okay with you're staying?"

Wright nodded.  "She'd rather Spike and Buffy stay, too, but we know the chances of that are…"

"Nonexistent?"

"Yeah."

She clasped his hand, fingers entwining as she led him down the hall.  "Well, who knows?" she said softly.  "Buffy loves Spike, and Spike loves it here.  Maybe—"

"She has a life elsewhere."

"Yeah, like an hour away."

"It's the Hellmouth, Cordy. She can't just leave."

The Seer's eyes widened.  "Oh, so she's supposed to spend every waking minute for the rest of _forever _watching over it?  Hell-o!  It's called a life, pal.  Besides, there's a Hellmouth in Cleveland, too.  And guess what's on their Christmas list, right next to pony or something else you want but never get.  Begins with S, ends with…well you get the point."  A sigh rolled off her shoulders.  "Okay, okay.  Big fault.  I'm not wild about being without them, either, but it wouldn't work out.  Angel's coming back…most likely…and I really don't think that Spike could stand to—"

"Angel _has _to work here?  He can't…I dunno…take the nightshift at Wal-Mart?"

Cordelia scowled.  "He's a great guy once you get to know him."

"Yeah.  He only tortured the living crap out of my best friend's girlfriend.  What a fucking saint."

They froze simultaneously when they realized what he had said.

"Did you just—"

Wright's eyes widened comically.  "No.  I did not_ just_ anything.  In fact—"

"You just called Spike your best friend!"

"I did not!"

"Ohhhh…" Cordelia smirked scandalously.  "I am _so _telling!"  And before he could offer a word of objection, she had torn from his side and bounded down the hallway, screaming that she had a secret at the top of her lungs.

He watched her disappear in horror.  Yelling verbosely down the stairwell.  Giddy and obnoxious and absurdly childish.  And strangely, he hadn't seen anything in a long time that brought him greater joy, even if she managed to effectively shatter his reputation.

Oh yeah.  This was love.

Now he just had to find a way to tell her.

*~*~*

"A thousand plus channels, and I still can't find anything worth watching."

Lindsey arched a brow and entered the room, nearing the sofa with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.  "You don't have cable," he observed.  "You only have four channels to begin with."

"That's seven, thank you very much."  Lockley shrugged and reached out to take the coffee, offering a thankful grin in turn.  "Is this black?"

"I swear, I actually put the sugar and cream in the cupboard while I made yours.  Just in case they decided to fling off the counter."

"Thanks."  With a long, leisure sip of approval, she leaned back and indicated the television once more.  "I only complain about what I'm watching because I don't care."

"I know."

"Before this…before everything happened, sitting down to fry my brain really wasn't on the top ten of my to-do list."

"I can imagine that.  My recent unemployment has me memorizing the weekly line-up, as well."

She scoffed, as though offended at the notion.  With a subconscious tug at her blonde ponytail, she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in her sweatshirt and took another sip of her coffee.  "I'm memorizing nothing."

"Oh really?  Then what comes on at eight?  You've been watching the clock like a hawk the past half hour."

There was a second and a guilty pause.  Kate glanced down and murmured under her breath, _"Survivor."_

He froze, staring at her for a long unblinking moment before he cracked a smile and ducked his head at her shyness.  As though admitting that much was akin to signing one's name to a death warrant.  "Ahhh," he said, nodding.  "So, the detective has a guilty secret."

Lockley's eyes widened.  "It's not my fault.  I'm stuck here watching whatever's on.  And that show just happens to be…"

"Sinfully addictive?"

"More _apropos _than my other choices."

Another grin curled his lips, bidding voice before a sharp knock drew the room to an infinite standstill.  Kate drew to a firm standstill and met his gaze with shades of worry she had not allowed herself to portray since leaving the hospital.  Through the past two days, both had been more than aware that Wolfram and Hart was liable to trace and eradicate Lindsey from the mortal coil, given everything that he was and knew.  Especially with what he had related with the plans to reensoul Angel.  Something neither could fully grasp.

Immediately, she reached up and flicked the television off before tossing the remote to the other end of the sofa, placing her drink on the coffee table and moving to stand.  She didn't get very far; Lindsey placed his hand on her shoulder to hold her where she was, a finger at his lips.

"Stay put."

Her eyes widened even further in protest.  "I—"

"If they're here, it's for me and not you."

"And that's supposed to make me not help, how?"

All sense of forewarning vanished the next instant.  There was a rasping at the door, as though someone was drawing her nails across the surface.  Then a small voice touched the air, and McDonald's blood ran cold.

"Lindsey…"

Lockley glanced up.  "It's a woman."

No, it was more than that.

"It's Darla."  

"Darla?  How did she find you here?  How—"

A sigh ran through his body.  "Wolfram and Hart, Lilah, following my scent, and of the above."  He turned to her, studying her face for a long minute before nodding to the bedroom.  "You remember the other night when I told you I was putting some stuff in your nightstand?"

She nodded.

"I need you to go in there and get my insurance policy.  You'll know what I'm talking about once you see it."  Lindsey looked up again.  "I need to know what she wants."

"Other than—oh say—a dead us?"

He shook his head.  "It's something else…this is…just go get it."

"Whatever it is, it won't hold a vampire, Lindsey.  Especially one as old and strong as—"

He tossed her a wry glance with a thin smile.  "Trust me, Kate," he said.  "If needed, they will do the trick." 

They exchanged a long look of understanding.  There wasn't much they could say without giving themselves away; despite the door between them, vampires had exceptional hearing.  If Darla even began to suspect something other than the very best of intentions, they wouldn't get anything from her.  Thus with a nod, Lockley cast her quilt aside and fought to her feet.  

Lindsey made sure she was well out of sight before approaching the doorway.

What he found on the other side would have at one time rendered his heart worn and seeking vengeance.  Not since her resurrection had Darla appeared so lost and confused.  She was wearing a light pink shawl, her hair was tangled and her eyes shaken.  For everything, she looked to be genuinely distraught, but he knew better than to fall for the same old.  The vampire was, if nothing else, an exceptional actress.

She flashed him a weak smile after a few agonizingly long seconds.  "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"It's not my apartment."  And that raised an interesting question.  "How did you find me, Darla?"

There was a pause.  She was trembling hard; so hard that he had to force himself not to cross the threshold and comfort her.  Despite everything that had occurred, there was some tug that she held over him.  Some small calling that demanded attention.  While his feelings for her had suffered a drastic undertaking, she was still so influential.  Just in her presence, her thoughts, her singular being.

Dangerous.

"Lilah," she managed after a long minute.  "A-after it…a-after it happened, L-Lilah told me where to go."

He frowned.  "'It?'"

Darla's head turned up and her eyes found clarity, swimming with indecision.  "It's Angel, Lindsey.  H-he…we were in Lilah office…there was fighting and…a-and he…" Her hand crawled down the expanse of her body to cover her stomach.  "My boy left me.  He left me again.  He started yelling and sobbing, and he was hurting, and then he ran into the hall.  I-I tried to go after him, but he was yammering like he had in Romania, looking at me with such…horror."  She shuddered visibly, reaching to clutch at her throat.  "He tried to kill me, Lindsey.  My Angel.  He tried to kill me all over again.  He looked at me and then…realized who I was and… Funny, the first time this happened, he begged me to take him home."

Ah.  So that explained it.

The curse had worked.  Of course.  What else would have brought her to him?

McDonald nodded.  "And Dru?  Where's she?"

Darla shook her head, looking down again.  "I didn't see.  Angel threw me into the hall and tried to kill me, but he couldn't.  Then…then Lilah said something and he was gone.  I told her I needed you, so I came."  She smiled weakly.  "Here I am.  And I do need you, Lindsey.  You're the only one…you're the only one I have left."  

He pursed his lips, considering, and finally crossed the threshold to take her into his arms.  When she clutched at him, he felt his heart warming with something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in weeks.  And yet, he knew it was over.  Somewhere deep rang the realization of self-discovery.  Brushing a kiss to her temple, he whirled her so that her back was to the doorway.

"Angel tried to kill you?"

She nodded pitifully.  "He had his hand at my throat.  After the pain was over, he shoved me against the wall and had his hand at my throat.  I don't know…I guess Lilah reminded him…about the cheerleader."  She cracked a weak, unfeeling smile.  "It's such a shame, too.  We were having so much fun.  Why do they always take him away from me when we're having such fun?"  There was no sense waiting for a response.  She nuzzled his throat, offering a patch of alabaster a long, mournful lick.  Then there was a pause and she tightened her grip at his shoulders.   "Lindsey…why is the mortal trying to sneak up on me?"

McDonald froze, eyes darting to Lockley.  "It's her apartment."

"Let me kill her.  We'll make it our apartment."

A lump rose in his throat.  "I'm sorry, Darla…" His hands skimmed the length of her arms before grasping her wrists, using that leverage to pull her prostate against him.  That was all the incentive Kate required; she hurried forward and clamped the aforementioned insurance policy to hold her still.  "Today just hasn't been your day."

Darla roared and shimmied free, tugging at the cuffs that now held her arms bound behind her back.  She flashed around, gracing Lockley with a murderous look that would have rightly scared anyone else into stunning submission.  "You idiot," she snapped.  "Handcuffs?  Please.  I—"

"They're not handcuffs," Lindsey returned, coaxing her to turn her attention back to him.  "I didn't leave Wolfram and Hart without taking some of the benefits along with me.  I'm willing to bet you can appreciate that."

Her eyes blazed with fury, every mark of her screaming her condemnation of him as a traitor.  In the next instant, her bumpies had emerged and she looked to ready to gnaw through his throat until his head fell from his body, only to fall with the impact of Lockley's backhanded blow.  She met the floor with such bluntness that even took the lawyer by surprise.  

She didn't move to get up.  She was out cold.

McDonald glanced up, eyes wide.

The blonde shrugged, unbothered.  "Police officer, remember?"

"Yeah, and she's a vampire.  Not to mention, you're sick."

Another shrug.  "It's all in the application of strength.  And I'm not _that _sick."

He gazed at her for another long, incredulous beat.  Then slowly, he smiled.

"You're a hell of a woman, Lockley." 

"This is what I'm saying."  Her blue eyes dropped to the ground, staring callously at the vampire crowding the hallway.  "Shouldn't we stake her while she's out?"

There was a long pause.  

"No."

She blinked, not bothering to disguise her surprise.  "No?"

"No."  Without meeting her inquiring gaze, Lindsey kneeled forward and gathered Darla in his arms.  His heart was hammering, and every string that was still tied to Wolfram and Hart screamed in protest.  But there was a sense of duty, and he knew that some ties to vengeance could not be broken.  "Stay here, Kate.  I won't be long."

There was no want of objection, but she frowned her confusion anyway.  "Where are you going?"

A shiver ran through his body.  "Special delivery."

*~*~*

"You think it was a mistake inviting her in here?"

Spike tossed Gunn an incredulous glance.  "'S not like she's goin' anywhere."

"Lindsey didn't offer us any proof that those were Gregori's cuffs, though. He just plopped her by and decided that we should just take it on a word of faith."

The vampire's gaze narrowed and he reached for the material in question before summoning all of his strength to give it the tug of conviction.  When absolutely nothing more than his grunt of exertion resulted from the display, the other man was effectively silenced.

Spike snickered and gave a weary glance over his shoulder where Wright was sitting on the back of the sofa, eyes intent on the unconscious blonde.  A stake was ready in his grip and he occasionally thought to toss it between his hands to better the feel. "So, Zangy," the peroxide Cockney drawled.  "This 's it.  The big one.  What you've been waitin' to do for seven long bloody years."

The demon hunter nodded.  "So it would seem."

Gunn grinned.  "Never figured she'd be handed to you like this, did you?"

The other man's brows arched appraisingly.  True, the last thing he had ever expected was to be allowed such a break.  In the fifteen minutes that she had been here, he was still trying to grasp the concept that once over, all ties to his former life would be effectively severed, and at the start of the day, he would have snickered at the man who suggested things ever happened this easily.

Some men would be angry that she had been gift-wrapped and handed to him.

He wasn't.  As long as she died, and as long as he was the ultimate cause, all was fine by him.

He just couldn't grasp that it was today.  Today of all days.  What made today unique?

"So we're countin' on getting a visit from Angel soon?"

Spike shrugged easily.  "Depends on whether or not the wanker has a death wish.  'F he comes near me or Buffy while we're here, 's gonna take hell's legions to keep me from tearin' him apart."

Wright frowned.  "I thought you wanted him to suffer.  'Poetic justice' and all that."

A brow arched as the peroxide vampire regarded him.  "Yeh, I did.  'S been, what?  Two hours?  I'd wager the git's suffered enough."

There was a chortle of interest.  "Cordy would _so _kick your ass."

"Yeh, well, Cordy would have to _catch _me firs'."

Zack laughed genuinely at that.  Of course, Spike would run before he hurt someone he cared about.  That was simply an understanding he had come to grasp over the past few days.  One that brought him peace whereas before it would have only served to up his suspicion.  

"You think you oughta do it now?" Gunn asked nervously, bringing their attention back to the unconscious blonde.  "Just get it over with?"

"No. I want her to look me in the eye.  I want her to know it was me that did it."

Spike leered with patronizing assessment.  "Tha's my boy."

Wright rolled his eyes.  "Oh, shut up."

"Oi!  'S that the way to talk to your _best friend?"_

"I swear, I'm gonna stake you, _then _Darla."

The vampire shrugged, clearly unthreatened.  "Y'see, that'd brass off my lady.  An' yours too, I might add."

"Yeah.  Our ladies have notoriously bad taste, don't they?"

Gunn shook his head.  "I can't believe you're doing this," he told the hunter.  "I mean, you're minutes away from sealin' your life's conquest, and you're using the time to bicker about your women?  Isn't this usually used for self-reflection and thinkin' about how after this, nothin' will ever be the same?"

Spike and Zack glanced to each other wryly, and shrugged with casual negligence.

"Been there," the Cockney said.

"Done that," the hunter agreed.

"Come on," Gunn complained.  "This is it, dawg.  The big it.  You're entire life's gonna change."

"My life has already changed."  His gaze settled darkly on the unconscious vampire.  "This is just unfinished business."

"So, you're not at all nervous?"

Wright paused meaningfully, pursing his lips.  "I wouldn't say that."

"Yeh," Spike concurred with a nod.  "'E's right, mate.  Think about it.  The whole of your former life's over after this one.  You gotta be feelin' it."

Gunn nodded enthusiastically.  "He's only been waiting for this for seven years."

"Dreamin' about it—"

"Planning it—"

"Practicin' technique on my relatives—"

"Imagining how good it'll feel to finally—"

There was a sudden moan and everything drew to a standstill.  Gunn and Spike's grip on Darla tightened without thought, holding her against the wall and within clear aim of Wright's stake, should he decide to do it from a distance.  However, when the moment finally arrived with its entire expected climax, there was really nothing to it.

Darla's eyes fluttered open.  It took a minute to gauge her surroundings, to realize that she was bound and held.

Her eyes first traveled to Spike.  

"You."

He grinned, thoroughly unbothered.  "Grandmum.  There's someone I think you oughta meet…though I'd wager introducin' you would be pointless."

There was a pause of confusion.  Then she looked up.

And gasped when she saw him.

"Zack…"

That was all it took.  The next instant, Wright's heated footsteps covered the floor of the lobby, his stake upping and burying itself in her chest.  When she gasped again, her pleading eyes going wide, he blew her a mock kiss and pulled away.  

"I would say something here," he observed.  "But it's all so clichéd."

Watching her dissolve was one of the most fulfilling endeavors of his existence.  Strange.  It was nothing overly climactic.  Trumpets didn't sound, he didn't hear a heavenly choir, and the moment didn't draw out longer than it was supposed to.  One minute she was there, and just like that, it was over.

All was over. 

The weight of seven years over.

"Hmmm…" Zack said, pivoting to Gunn.  "Turns out, I was fine."  He tossed the dazed man his stake before whirling around and heading up the corridor, wondering if Cordelia would like to take in a movie.

After all, they deserved it.

It had been a hell of a day.

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-Five: _Tell Me Something Good_…**

**A/N: **Yes, we will be seeing Angel in the next chapter.  ****


	46. Tell Me Something Good

**Chapter Forty-Five**

**Tell Me Something Good**

It hadn't been like this before.

It had _never _been like this.

The sensation itself was something that no one could forget, despite how much time had passed. The first time had burned so long ago, and he could still feel it. With every move he made, with each breath he wasn't supposed to take. The way it sent waves of burning light through every pore in his body, making every place on him that had ever been touched scream in pain. Every muscle that had ever been strained ached as though afflicted with new injury. Every minor detailed hurt had seized command without turn to any other form of soft consideration. Such a shock—a blunt, sharp stab that impressed every nerve. And then pain. So much pain. Pain that surpassed anything previously experienced, and then some. 

The first of anything was supposed to be the hardest. The most difficult to endure. 

The second time hadn't been any easier. Feeling the weight of his conscience soar into his unprepared self. Feeling the full of Buffy's tears as she gazed at him. Feeling the sweetness of her kisses, the whispered hush of her oath of love. Feeling everything that he had never thought to feel again. 

Feeling a sword shove through his gut.

The moment that he realized his soul was being retracted once more, Angel had thought that to be the end. There was no way Cordelia, Wesley, and Gunn would allow him to survive. Not with what he made them promise, and certainly not with what had transpired thereafter. He had stood outside the Hyperion yelling at them for hours, and he remembered reveling in their foolishness when they neglected to put an end to it then and there. He had felt their presence following his trail for days, and yet they hadn't attempted to come at him with a stake. They had sent Spike on the inside, and even he fell short to the mastery of seeing his end.

Spike.

In truth, the minute that Angel realized his soul was being stolen, he knew that living again was a burden he did not want. He knew that his already reddened hands would know the pain of more blood, and he did not wish that for himself. Not for others, and certainly not for himself.

He had not known the face that haunted him more than any other would belong to Buffy.

_A rush then. Standing in Lilah Morgan's office, chatting with her, making the usual threats. His arm was around Darla's waist, and he was leering at her appraisingly. He felt the stir of old irritation, but it wasn't anything he hadn't adapted himself to in the long sentence of his lifetime._

He couldn't even remember what was being discussed. Not specifically. Most likely a string of speculation begging to see the end of Angel Investigations, or something of a similar nature. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered.

_A sharp pain winded his stomach, sending him back as his eyes went wide. He found himself on the floor, clawing the carpet as sensationalism beyond repute seized command over what it was that he knew. Something inhuman tore at the air; he realized belatedly it was himself. "Fucking no!" he rasped._

_"Angelus?" Darla asked. It was a rare day when concern touched her voice._

_Today was a rare day._

_"Fucking no!" _

_Another wail tackled the air and Drusilla sank to her knees, holding her head. "Oh, no, no, no. They've interrupted our tea party. No crumpets. No sugar. Grandmum!"_

_He felt, rather than saw, Darla's understanding. "No…"_

_Drusilla was sobbing now, rocking herself back and forth. "Bad, bad. They're ruining our happy home. Nasty little wasps. Buzzing around my head. Bzzz, bzzzz…"_

This wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be dead.

Why wasn't he dead?

Everything after Wolfram and Hart was a blur. He remembered shoving Drusilla away, but he didn't know if he had killed her. It was possible. Things had been fast and violent. He suspected he would have felt it had he killed her; right now, he was too foregone to register anything he felt. 

Darla, though. He remembered Darla. He remembered thrusting her against the wall in the corridor outside Lilah's office. He remembered feeling the manifestation of his self-loathing and hatred pour from his hands into her throat. He wanted to tear her head from her body. He wanted to make her dead. If he couldn't be dead, he wanted someone there in his place.

They had killed together. And they had enjoyed it.

But in the end, he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill the woman that had caused him and those he loved so much pain. He had killed her once. He couldn't do it again. Even there at the end, he couldn't do it. Not now. Now when he was even more to blame than she was for the way things had gone. She had killed, but she had been merciful.

_Flash. Buffy hanging in the bowels of Wolfram and Hart, naked body aligned with bite marks and bloody gashes. Things he had done to her because he wanted to. Because he was bored and she was convenient. Because she was the one thing above all others that, even now, drew him to the limelight of humanity. He had done that to her._

He couldn't kill Darla. Darla hadn't done _that._

He had.

Reparation he was used to. Guilt he was used to. Hating himself he was used to.

This was beyond anything he had ever felt. Anything he had a right in feeling.

And he needed someone. Cordelia, Wesley, Gunn. Anyone.

He needed to see them.

The Hyperion itself was off-limits, though, and somehow he knew that. Without forward recognition, he knew. He knew, and yet his feet wouldn't listen to his head, and instead insisted on carrying him the length of what separated him from the only true sanctuary he had ever known. Perhaps at a different time, he would have regarded the apprehension with which he observed his association with a unit he had founded himself as thoroughly unorthodox, but there was something to be said about such acknowledgment. Every raw nerve in his body called him home, and while he appeased the technicalities in distance, he refused to adhere his more primal urges.

After all, Buffy would be in there. And he couldn't face her.

Not now.

Not after everything he had said. After everything he had _done._

He had hurt her; he hurt himself.

And the last time he saw her, she had wanted him dead. She had wanted him dead even more so than he did right now. 

Had it not been for Spike, she would have killed him.

_Spike._

There was no way within the realm of feasibility that he could begin to react to the sensation the strictest of foreknowledge bestowed. Similarly, there was no sense in denying what he knew was true. He had been there. He had seen it all. Furthermore, in the past two days, Lilah had taken immense pleasure in detailing the reels of film the forbidden security cameras captured. While he and his girls had delighted in reliving every minute of the Slayer's agony, he recalled the pure fury that coursed through his veins when he saw his disobedient grandchilde touch his property as though he had some right.

And he had done more than touched her. She had welcomed his hands and lips and tongue in and on her body. She had cried for him. He had cried for her.

Angelus had watched and felt nothing but envious rage. Angel recalled and experienced the most troublesome regret to coincide with his already seething disgust.

He had driven her to that. His touch had made her crave the healing power of a monster that believed himself in love with her. A monster that could be a monster again if he desired it so. Chances were, she didn't even know the chip was out. What he had seen a few nights ago was enough to testify to that. She had allowed him to cradle her to his chest. And true, while Spike was not completely unfeeling—he had never been as monstrous as the rest of them—he was still at heart what they were. A monster. And now that the danger was over, it was time for that side to come out of hiding and stop playing at heroics.

_That's not fair._

Life seldom was. 

_You saw him with her. He cares. He cared for her while you tried to make her scream. And he had no reason to._

That was the lowest of all thoughts. Spike without a conscience had more of a sense of right and wrong than he had displayed even before Wolfram and Hart reverted him to natural form. It would have been easy had the months prior to the incident at Holland Manners house displayed the perfect aptitude of Angel Investigations. They didn't. Darla's return had shaken the foundation he relied on, such that even now with everything that had passed, he couldn't kill her.

Something nasty told him that even if he hadn't been Angelus, the lawyers in the wine cellar would have never made it out alive.

A monster cursed with humanity cursed with monstrosity. Where did that leave him?

Infinitely fucked.

Angel released a long, agonized sigh as he paused before the Hyperion. He was still far enough away that he doubted anyone inside would stoop to detection, but close enough to make out the shapes passing the windows. A sense of home he had never before reckoned. He saw Cordelia chatting heatedly with someone he did not recognize upfront. He saw Gunn speaking to Wesley and a blonde girl he couldn't identify—the hunter's body language betraying a manner of storytelling that the vampire would recognize anywhere. He saw another girl he didn't know and a child playing a card game. And he saw Buffy and Spike emerge from the upper levels, duel smiles on their faces and hands clasped so tightly one would presume they were made that way. Cordelia turned abruptly from whatever she was saying to greet them with something that only made the picture of their delight grow. Then Gunn intervened to scold the unfamiliar man about something—something of which he himself received a decent scolding to in the thereafter. Wesley added his two cents and made everyone laugh. The elder vampire watched as Spike left Buffy's side so he could approach the child, whisper something in her ear, and brush a kiss across her cheek. The other girl didn't seem too happy about that, and the unknown male rolled his eyes and said something that had them all laughing again. 

Buffy approached the platinum vampire then and wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing herself against his back intimately. Spike was still talking to the other man but he couldn't stop his hand from tangling with hers where it rested against his stomach, and no one denied the intimacy of the gesture.

Out of everything he had seen, everything he had done, Angel knew that what he had just witnessed was the most painful trial of his existence. It wasn't fair—not to her, not his victims, and not even to Spike. While he resented the hell out of it, he further resented the knowledge that he had no right in resenting in the first place. 

Everything he had ever worked for was gone, and it was more than what he owed. And still it hurt. It hurt terribly.

But it was what he owed.

There was no sense in disrupting their happiness. Not when they had something to celebrate. 

He couldn't. He wouldn't demand that of him. He didn't deserve it.

Instead, he turned and did what he should have done from the beginning. From the head of this entire charade. Ever since Wolfram and Hart decided to muck with the serenity that had been his lifestyle. Before they reintroduced him to Darla and made the claim to play God. Before he let them get into his head and drive him insane with furious outrage and the weighted heat of his own arrogance.

It was time to put that all behind him and let those he loved bask in their joy.

And walk away.

*~*~*

A watery smile had crossed Cordelia's face, and she traded a long, meaningful glance with Wright as he came down the stairs after seeing the girls to sleep. "I swear I was gonna let you walk, no contest, but I was never good at keeping promises. Are you sure there's nothing we can do to talk you out of this?"

"Buffy's made her decision."

"We," the Slayer corrected, eyes narrowing at Wesley. "We decided."

"You know you're always welcome here."

Spike smiled, arm tightening around Buffy as she snuggled into his side. "Yeh," he replied with a cordial nod. "An' we appreciate that. We really don'…I…" It was a rare day when the platinum vampire found himself short of words, and the notion was nothing that could be cast aside lightly. Despite what he said, how he tried to put up an impenetrable façade, the concept of leaving was hitting him hard. Never had he known such unprejudiced acceptance.

The look on his face was unreadable, but it stabbed Buffy's conscience all the same. He would follow her to the end of the world if she asked, but Sunnydale was going to be hard enough. And yet, here he was. Speaking on her behalf. He hadn't voiced a word of complaint about his status other than to note a preference for the people they were with now, and she knew that he would not. However, the hidden layers buried within his eyes were enough to foil the hardest of hearts.

"We've spent some time talking," she said hoarsely. "There are things that are different now."

"We're gettin' an apartment, for one," Spike observed without missing a beat. "The Slayer doesn' wanna live in a graveyard, an' I respect that."

Her gaze narrowed and he grinned unrepentantly. "And Spike has decided that, despite how much he loves my family, it'd be better if we—oh say—didn't live there."

"But it won' be till after this Glory business 's over," he confirmed. 

"Until then, he'll stay in the basement."

Gunn frowned. "Wait. Whoa. Who's Glory?"

"Someone you don't have to worry about," Buffy replied. "I just have to stay near the house until she's bit the dust."

"Watch the way you use that phrase, luv."

Tara smiled weakly. "She…Glory, that is…we haven't really h-had any trouble with her. I mean, since we w-went to England. We didn't tell anyone where we were g-going, and the Council gave us some information—"

The Slayer's eyes flashed with directive sanction that she hadn't felt in a long time. "What information?"

"It's…it's not good. But it might not be a problem f-for too much longer."

A frown depressed the peroxide vampire's mouth, and he tossed a curious glance to Buffy. "I never got the full of that gig, y'know."

She offered him a reassuring smile. "You'll know. I just can't talk about it right now."

"What's this, girl?" Gunn demanded with false indignation. "We gang up to save your hide, and you can't trust us?"

"Oh no. _So _completely not that. I trust you. I'm all with the trusting. It's more…if you know, you're in danger."

"So 's jus' me an' her normal mates that she doesn' like," Spike affirmed with a nod. He received a death glare in turn. "An' Zangy, 'm guessin', 'f he decides to tag along."

Cordelia frowned. "What?"

"Jus' temporary, luv," Spike retorted, holding up a hand, unable to suppress the grin that innately rose to his lips at her presumption. "Buffy an' I thought it'd be to our benefit to have your honey come back with us. Y'know…fight the baddies an' all that sodding rot." He flashed a speculative smile at the demon hunter. "'F that's all right with him."

"Let me emphasize the 'temporary,'" the Slayer added. "Not that we wouldn't be thrilled for you to be in SunnyD forever, but as we all know, that issue was decided yesterday."

There was a long minute of suspended silence. Wright blinked slowly and came to himself without delayed hindrance. "What? Okay…I'm lost…now you want me to come with you—"

"Again with the temporary."

"—to fight this chick that's been causing you so much trouble?"

"W-we need all the help we can get," Tara offered meekly.

"We do," Buffy agreed with a nod. "Well, we _always _do, but especially right now with the…with all the extra special clauses that come with her. It'd be a favor to Spike…and me…and if it's all right with everyone here…" She frowned as she glanced around the lobby. "We're not asking any more than to borrow him for…two weeks, tops."

Wesley's eyes widened. "Two weeks?"

The Witch shrugged. "I-it's not that much, when y-you think about it."

"An' Zangy's the most obvious choice," Spike concluded. "'E's not hot on the wire 'round here on a normal day—yet—an' this town needs the bloody lot of you to keep from high-tailin' it to hell."

A worried look overwhelmed Cordelia, and she gnawed on her lip thoughtfully. "But you're going to let him come back hassle free."

Wright arched a brow. "Ummm, 'let him'? What, you think they'd lock me in the basement?"

"I wouldn't put it past them."

"Look," Buffy intervened sharply, holding up a hand. "If it's going to be a problem—"

"No, there is no problem," Wesley decided authoritatively. "I know enough about hellmouths to recognize that trouble circulating with the rise of a new power can result with catastrophic consequences. We would be happy to help in any way possible."

"Ummm, hold on." Wright was waving his arms frantically, a dissatisfied scowl on his face. "Unless I missed something, I could've sworn this was—oh, I don't know—my decision."

The other man shook his head calmly. "Not anymore. Your decisions are based on what's good for the whole, and right now, what's good for the whole coincides with not being killed horribly in the potential upcoming apocalypse."

Buffy's eyes widened. "Who said anything about an apocalypse?"

"You had it all over your face. I might not have been the best Watcher, but I do know how to read 'potential world-threatening disaster ahead' when called for."

"So this is a company decision?" Zack demanded, brow furrowed with continuous dissatisfaction. "A company decision where the company in question is the same that I've been named president to?"

"Co-president, thank you."

"I knew we shouldn't have bumped him up so quickly," Gunn muttered to Cordelia, who arched her brow at him in turn. "It's already gone to his head."

The Seer rolled her eyes and stepped forward to take Wright by the arm with gentle persuasion. "It is for the best," she said softly. "We're just gonna have to help you get used to decisions being made for you when you work as a part of the whole."

He was still pouting. "I don't like it."

"You can bring the Bit," Spike added.

"Rosie on the Hellmouth? No thanks. I pass."

"I'd watch after her for you," Tara offered with a shy grin. "She's adorable."

"An' you're loony 'f you think I'd let anythin' happen to her," the vampire protested. "I'll guard her precious bones with my unlife." 

"Really, we're going to have nothing going on here," Cordelia said. "We're still following up on that lead with the girl who disappeared, even though by now she's probably been hacked to bits and made into people stew."

Buffy's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Nice."

"Hey, you drink blood. Don't judge."

A sigh ran through the demon hunter as he guided his hand through his brown locks. "Well," he began, as though desperately trying to wrangle some semblance of control. It had to be hard, and everyone understood. Going from where he was his own boss—no questions asked—to having his fate decided by an unpronounced committee. And yet, no one was rushing him. All was, for better or worse, well. "I guess it would be worth it to see all these people Spike keeps bitching about."

The vampire grinned at that. "Xander?"

"For starters."

Buffy scowled and whapped her sire across the chest. He laughed and kissed her cheek in turn. "Come on, luv. 'S not like the whelp's ever been my number one fan."

Her scowl only deepened in the manner it did when she knew he was right.

"Xander's not bad," Tara said obligatorily. "He's just…loyal and protective."

"Judgmental," Spike corrected gruffly. "An' a bloody hypocrite."

"He's not—"

"Oh, so I'm a bad guy 'cause I got turned under circumstances that were bloody beyond my control, but his bird's all right 'cause she has an expiration date an' a shiny pulse, but no soul along with it." He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "An' let's not forget that she volunteered for her gig. Bloody recruited by some head honcho demon 'cause of the wackiness she did to earn it. I did nothin' but stand in an alley an' I'm the bad guy? Right. Makes perfect sense."

The Witch glanced down again, mimicking Buffy's 'I know when I'm bested' face. "He…he just doesn't always have time to think logically."

"Okay, it's official." Wright shook his head with a taut grin. "I _have _to meet this guy. At least pre-this, I never discriminated. I just hated everything nonhuman."

"And now Spike's your best friend," Cordelia added. 

"I swear to God…"

"That's okay," Buffy said, sliding her arm through the peroxide vampire's and pressing herself consciously into his side. "He's kinda mine, too." When she received a startled look of endless adoration and wonder at that, she merely smiled and planted a brief, however affectionate kiss on his lips. "Not that I have anything against Wills and Xander…but…you've kinda been bumped up." 

"That's the way it should be," Tara said with a concurring nod. "Willow's my best friend, and I like to think I'm hers, too. It only strengthens how much we love each other."

Spike adapted an endearingly goofy smile and started shifting as though he had been fed caffeine pills. "Well, that's it," he decided. "I got me my girl, my pride, my sentiment of endless adulation, an' a chum to help me go back to a place I bloody despise. 'S all good, though, I think 'm ready."

"Good." The Slayer sighed slightly. "I just wish I was. It'd be so much easier if I had an idea of what to expect."

A still beat sizzled through the lobby. The platinum vampire glanced expectantly to those he had grown so close to, and as though the thought occurred to them all at once, a series of conspiratorial smiles sprouted to instantaneous life.

Gunn turned to Wesley. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

"I believe we all are."

It was too well-timed to be trusted. Buffy turned to Spike worriedly. "What? What is it?"

"A way," he replied elusively.

"How?"

His eyes sparkled mischievously, but he did not answer her.

*~*~*

The next thing she knew, Buffy was sitting on stage for a crowd of demons with a microphone in her hand. 

It was difficult to see with the mass concentration of spotlights and the like, but she knew Spike was out there watching her. Spike and everyone—lounged comfortably at the bar while she sat up in the limelight, basking in discomfort and the innate paranoia of people hearing her sing.

He likely had that insufferable smirk on his face. 

She was _so _going to let him have it.

"Don't sweat it, lemon-drop," the proprietor of Caritas had told her. Lorne. That was his name. The Host. Lorne. He was by far the kindest and most interesting non-vamp demon she had ever come across. The sort that demanded respect without muttering a word. He was polite and full of life; humorous, even if she was much too nervous laugh at his jokes. "It's a little intimidating for a first timer, but believe me, it's a piece of red velvet cake once the spotlight hits you right."

Evidently, the spotlight was off by several thousand light-years.

Then the music started playing and the words appeared on the teleprompter. 

_Oh god oh god oh god…_

_"Love," _she heard herself sing, _"you didn't do right by me. You planned a romance that just hadn't a chance, and I'm through."_

An aggravated grunt rumbled through the audience. Buffy's glimmering eyes shot up and instantly captured Spike's, and she flashed him a loving grin that undoubtedly came across as dry and insincere. Well, served him right for making her sing. Wasn't as though the song was about him, anyway.

It was hardly about him.

_"Love, you didn't do right by me. I'm back on the shelf and I'm blaming myself, but it's you."_

Meanwhile, Spike was grumbling with interest, trying to look unaffected. It was a silly thing to take offense to, and the knowledge, instead of liberating him only made his frustration grow.

"Hey there, big guy." Lorne handed him a Martini with a wane smile. "Relax. You're the last person she's thinking about with _those _lyrics in mind."

He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Do I wanna know how you know?"

The Host tapped two fingers against his temple with arched brows.

"Ah. Figured it was somethin' like that."

"Besides," he continued, "I think we can find certain audience members that serve as a more appropriate target, don't you? Say—and this is just a hunch—Tall Dark and Angelkins over there."

Spike's head shot up, instantly following Lorne's direction. Indeed, the grand poof himself had decided to make an appearance. He was lingering in the back, watching Buffy with a glowering guilt-filled gaze that only served to rub the peroxide vampire in the wrong direction. Though his body language screamed a disposition aware to their presence, he made no move to establish eye-contact.

He must have started forward, for the next thing he knew, the Host had placed a neutral hand on his shoulder to hold him stationary.

"Hey, hey," came the reprimand. "Call off the militia, bro. As much as any of us would love to see a Spike-shaped fist breaking our boy's face, this is a sanctuary and he's as welcome as any of my other guests. Take some advice from McCartney and let it be."

"'E's within thirty feet of the Slayer, mate. 'E came here knowin'—"

"That my sanctuary applies to the finest and the lowest, egg muffin. Little Buffalicious doesn't even know he's here." Lorne waited until the tension rolling off Spike's body finally began to subside before he released him completely. "You have the high ground now. My advice: keep it. Just let it go and enjoy the show. You're the one she loves." 

There was nothing quite like hearing another being say that with such knowledgeable conviction. He released a deep breath and nodded to signify his cooperation. Then, calmed, they both returned their attention to the stage.

_"My one love affair didn't get anywhere from the start. To send me a Joe who had winter and snow in his heart wasn't smart…" _ Buffy met his eyes again, and while she was definitely the cutest thing he had ever seen, her nervousness was doing its part to work a number on him as well. To her credit, she was covering admirably. He reckoned he was the only one who knew her well enough to read it.

He tossed another irritated glance to Angel who did not credit him by looking back. Perhaps not the only one.

_"Love. You didn't do right by me. As they say in the song…you done me wrong." _She offered an impish smile and he recognized the concluding chords. Finally. _"Yes, Mister Love. You done me wrong."_

The song drew to a close and the whole of the bar dissolved in applause. Buffy smiled shyly and nodded her thanks before scampering off stage as quickly as possible, racing to his side before anyone could approach. Now that it was over, Spike allowed himself to absolve the whole of her tension. It was so damned adorable. She could kill demons without batting an eye, but when asked to sing for them, she was nothing but nerves.

With alarming rapidity, Lorne had wheedled himself to the stage and was leaning over the microphone. "How about another hand for Little Miss Buff, wasn't she a doll?" The crowd easily appeased the request; they had decided to forgo the 'Slayer' part of her title. It was better that way. With or without a sanctuary, demons weren't going to be partial to anyone made from birth to kill them. "I'm gonna go have a chat with our not-so-single white vampire. Meanwhile, we got Cordy and Zack the Hunter comin' up to keep you company. Be gentle, kiddies. We're dealin' in a lot of Caritas virgins tonight."

Spike's head shot up and his eyes widened. Cordelia and Zangy were doing a number together?

Oh, fucking priceless.

"What do you bet," Gunn sneered appraisingly, "that they do 'Anything You Can Do'?"

"Close," Lorne agreed as he joined them. "It's a showtune. Their aura was so similar when they came in that I had Bobby whip them up a little something special."

"Better." Wesley shrugged. "I thought you might have paired them off with a Sonny and Cher number."

"I'd say Simon and Garfunkel," Tara volunteered. "B-but that's just because I like Mrs. Robinson." 

A despondent look overcame the Host. "Damn. Now why didn't I think of that?"

The chords struck and drew everyone's attention briefly to the uncomfortable duet at the front. Cordelia looked a bit more flexible than Wright; the man was unsmiling, as though the world itself had lost its sense of whimsy.

But, being the team player that he was, he let his eyes drift to the teleprompter and began singing.

_"You'll have to be a little more standoffish,"_ he chimed, _"When your formers come by looking for a date."_

Spike grinned. Bloody priceless.

_"What a way to start out our relationship," _Cordelia shot back in song. _"Now I can see why I should've made you wait."_

"For what?" he demanded.

"For this." She gracefully gestured to her rear.

The Host shook his head. "Quite a pair, the both of them. Even I couldn't have predicted that match." He turned back to Buffy with a wry grin. "You did fine, blossom. Stop looking so glum."

Spike tilted his head to the side. "Can you tell us anythin'?"

"The strawberry is the only fruit that bears its seeds on the outside."

_"I heard how you were kickin'_ _up some capers,"_ Wright continued on stage. _"Before when I was still on the go. I heard some things you couldn't print in papers, from your friends, who've been talkin' like they know!"_

The peroxide vampire rolled his eyes. "How about somethin' useful."

Lorne grinned. "So sue the green guy for having a sense of humor." He shook his head and turned to Buffy. "You got some times coming up ahead, cinnamon buns. Some are good, some are on the side of not. But you'll always have people there along the way." He nodded at Spike. "Just stick by them, and all should be a slice of apple-pie."

_"I only did the kind of things I oughta—sorta,"_ Cordelia had retaliated in song. _"To any I was as faithful as can be—for me. Those stories 'bout the way I lost my bloomers—Rumors! A lot of tempest in a pot of tea!"_

_"The whole thing doesn't sound very good to me."_

_"Well you see…"_

The Slayer's frown hadn't alleviated. She worried a lip between her teeth and traded a long glance with Spike. "Is there anything else?" she asked. "Like…everything has changed. Everything. And—"

"I can only tell you enough to get you on your way, strudels. Everything else is up to you."

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes. "I shoulda warned you, luv. Big Green here's not exactly keen on what the rest of society refers to as details."

"There are a lot of conflicting pathways in the massive cream pastry of the universe, and you probably knew that," the Host explained. "I'm not a mystic fortune teller, sugarbritches, and you know it. I just need to send you two on the right one."

On stage, Zack had been given a lengthy piece of fast-spoken versed dialogue. He was all but tripping over himself to keep up. _ "I didn't even sow my last wild oat, and I've cut out all girlies." _His brows arched as though that meant something. _"I save my money, don't gamble or drink in and am out before the earlies! I'll give up all the other things that a gentleman never mentions. But before I give up anymore, I wanna know your intentions!"_

"The most I can tell you is that you've made the right decisions thus far. Now all you gotta do is avoid baby-faced doctors and tall towers." Lorne smiled as though he had told a joke that no one understood. "The world will hand you a slice of fine and send you on your way if you let it. Your friends need to be trusted, because they trust you with their lives. The whole of them, honey. Not just a few."

_"With me it's all or nothin',"_ Wright was singing loudly. _"Is it all or nothin' with you? It can't be 'in between'. It can't be 'now and then'. No half and half romance will do."_

"Towers and doctors…" Buffy repeated with a frown. "I don't get it."

"Don't worry, pumpkin. You will."

_"If you can't give me all, give me nothin'. And nothing's what you'll get from me!" _

_"Not even something?" _Cordelia protested in song.

_"Nothing's what you'll get from me!"_

A sigh of exasperation rang through the platinum vampire. "This has all been very helpful. It has. Really. 'm not jus' sayin' that. But the thing is—"

"I know what the thing is, Spikelbum." Lorne turned back to Buffy. "You've already given your gift, tootsie. Had you not, we might have reason to be worried. But it's been given, whether or not you know it. And giving it twice wouldn't do any good anyway. So, like I said, stay away from towers and baby-face doctors, and that will set you on your path."

_"Can we move into a house?"_ the Seer was singing, _"All painted white? Make it ghost-clean and pretty and bright?"_

Wright leered at her. _"Big enough for only just us three?"_ he demanded in turn, indicating a small child with his free hand.

Cordelia nodded as though she understood, face flushed from exertion, albeit she seemed to really be getting into the number. _"Supposing that we should have another?"_ she replied, making a move that would suggest a pregnant stomach.

_"He better look a lot like me."_

_"The spitting image!"_

_"He better look a lot like me!"_

Buffy pursed her lips, heaving out a sigh. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. I can tell you one more thing." The Host moved to cross between them, clamping down a hand on the peroxide vampire's shoulder. "Not to go all Tammy Wynette on you, pumpkin, but stand by your man. I guarantee he won't let you down. Now, come on, Spikalicious. You're on next."

He blinked. "What?"

Gunn grinned, briefly jarred from the performance on stage and nudged the Slayer with a wink. "Oh, he's gonna sing? You'll fuckin' love it."

The prospect admittedly was a fun one. So much hype had been made about the vampire's singing voice that her curiosity was effectively piqued.

"Why do you bloody have to read me?" Spike demanded.

"Because your lady's future is tied in with yours, you big blonde fluffball," Lorne retorted boldly. "And I can't read the first half of a good book without knowing how it ends."

"Spike is going to sing?" Tara asked, tearing her eyes away from the spectacle at the front with some reluctance.

Buffy grinned. "Looks like."

"I want everyone here to know that this is against my will."

"I would request some Sinatra," Wesley offered with a wry grin. "But I don't think that would do any good."

An adorable pout crossed the platinum vampire's mouth. "I hate you all."

The Slayer's brows arched and she leaned into his inviting arms to steal a kiss from his lips. "Not all of us, I'd hope."

As expected, his eyes softened, but not nearly enough to grant her the kind of leeway she was looking for. It all served to make him wholly who he was. Spike without the preliminaries. Just Spike. "No," he agreed huskily. "Not all. But then, the Bit's not here, is she?"

"You think you're funny…"

"But 'm actually hilarious." He grinned and kissed her again. "Be prepared to be blown away, luv."

"_With you it's all or nothin',"_ Cordelia was singing. _ "All for you and nothin' for me. But if a woman is wise, she'll realize that men like you are wild and free. So I'm not gonna fuss. I'm not gonna frown. Have your fun. Go out on the town. Stay up late and don't come home till three. And go right off to sleep if you're sleepy."_ She leaned forward to pat his head condescendingly. _"There's no use waiting up for me!"_

A frown befell his face. "_Oh come on, Cordy!"_

She had begun to move away, swaying teasingly to the music. _"No use waiting up for me."_

His expression turned rakish, and he neared her like a predator. _"Come on and kiss me!"_

She almost made it, but he grasped her by the wrist and pulled her to him without another beat. The crowd went wild. _"No use waiting up for—"_

He kissed her. And that was that.

"Woo!" the Host applauded, wheedling his way on stage once more. "Someone get the hose, those two are on fire! Or need to be separated before we offend some of our younger patrons—one or the other, take your pick! Our next performer is no stranger to Caritas. You might remember him as the killer vamp with a heart of gold. Give up to Spike the Chipless Wonder!"

That was it. Buffy, Gunn, Wright, Cordelia, and Wesley all burst out laughing, especially when he meandered unenthusiastically on stage. Tara, for her part, smiled like a good sport, but the look on her face was all too much of a reminder that chipless as he was, Spike did not hold her trust. Yet.

He truly looked ready to kill them all. 

A beat past before an unmistakable beat rang through the air and changed his attitude drastically. The switch was so sudden that Buffy reckoned even the Powers could not have anticipated a blast of unprecedented merriment. In a flash, he went from grouchy and unaccommodating to sporting the most ridiculous smile she had ever seen.

"Charlie!" he called into the crowd, drawing attention to Gunn as though even the most obscure of demons knew it was he that was being addressed. "This one's for you, mate! Don' say I never did anythin' for you!"

The man in question frowned, confused.

Then grinned.

"Oh my God."

"What?" Tara asked.

"He's actually gonna do it."

Despite the unspoken implication, Spike had turned into a performer at the tune and raised the microphone before his voice touched the air. _"Here she comes now sayin' Mony Mony."_

Five jaws dropped simultaneously.

Then Buffy burst out laughing. 

Followed by Wright and Cordelia.

_"Shoot 'em down, turn around come on Mony!"_ He was rocking rhythmically now, winking at them, seemingly uncaring that they were poking fun at his expense. _"Hey, she give me love and I feel all right now. Come on, you gotta toss and turn, an' feel all right, yeah I feel all right! I said yeah—"_

He turned the microphone obediently to the audience, who screamed an enthusiastic, _"Yeah!"_

_"Yeah!"_

_"Yeah!"_

_"Yeah!"_

Fat tears were rolling down Buffy's cheeks, she was laughing so hard. And the sight of her jollity seemed to be enough to egg Spike on._ "'Cause you make me feel so good! So good! So good! So fine, so fine. It's all mine. Well I feel all right. I said yeah."_

_"Yeah!"_ the audience yelled back.

_"Yeah."_

_"Yeah!"_

_"Yeah. Yeah." _

A series of cadenced claps settled through the spectators. In the back, the Slayer and the others were rocking back and forth in beat, clapping along with them. The most effective form of dancing while sitting he had ever seen. He swore the lot of them moved like unemployed synchronized swimmers.

Never, ever had he imagined a scene to compare to the one now.

It was so much fun. And Spike didn't have fun. Not with others. Not like this.

These past few days with Buffy, with everyone, had been the best of his life.

_"Wake it, shake it Mony Mony. Up down, turn around, come on Mony. Hey, she gimme love, an' I feel all right now."_ He threw his head back theatrically. _"Don't stop now! Come on Mony! Come on yeah, I said yeah!"_

_"Yeah!"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Yeah!"_

_"Yeah."_

_"'Cause you make me feel so good! So good! So good! So fine, so fine. It's all right. Well I feel all right." _The music continued along with the recorded backup, but that was as far as Spike felt he needed to go. Dramatically, he tossed the microphone into the crowd, snagged a bow, and hopped down into a frenzied sea of enthusiastic patrons.

In seconds, he found himself hugging an armful of Buffy, who was still trembling from the power of her mirth.

"Like I said," Cordelia shouted over the music and the cheers. "You coulda made it big!"

"I can't believe you finally sang Billy Idol!" Gunn yelled.

"I made a truce," Spike retorted with a shrug. The Slayer had yet to let go of him. "'S not an Idol original, so I figured there was no harm."

"You were great," a voice rumbled against his throat before pulling back to attack his lips with ardent. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Everything."

Spike smiled softly and held her to him. Oh yes.

Whatever they faced from there, it was worth it. Whatever Lorne told him, it was worth it. Whatever happened tomorrow, it was worth it. So worth it that he nearly forgot Angel had been a part of the crowd.

Nearly.

But for everything else, for the first time in forever, he knew he was happy.

And for the rest of whatever happened, nothing could take that away.

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-Six: _Ravages of Spirit_…**


	47. Ravages of Spirit

**A/N: **Hey everyone.  This will be the last chapter for a few days.  I'm heading out of town to participate in a march in Washington DC.  (Hurrah!)  I hope to get some writing done, but seeing as it's going to be a bus ride, I doubt much productivity of the good sort will be accomplished.

Kudos to Imzadi for identifying Wright and Cordelia's number in the previous chapter—gotta love 'em musicals.  Bonus cool points to anyone who can name the musical from which Buffy's song was performed.  (Sorry, Kimmie.  Have to exclude you from this one.  I know you know what it is.  Heh heh) 

Anyway, following this, there should be four chapters and an epilogue left.  We're almost there.

****

****

**Chapter Forty-Six**

**Ravages of Spirit**

An hour later, everyone was huddled outside the Hyperion, all jollity having been left behind at Caritas.  With their departure returned the knowledge of why they had gone there in the first place, and naturally brought them back to the goodbyes that no one wanted to say.  Even then, the finality of the arrangement hadn't truly sunk in until Spike dutifully pulled the Desoto up front and Tara expressed her enthusiasm about not having to take another taxi.  It wasn't as though they had anything to pack; Buffy had borrowed some of Cordelia's trousers—older jeans that the Seer didn't want anymore and had yet to donate to Goodwill.  They wore a little tall on her and were slightly big around the waist, but no one thought to say anything.  The black cotton of Spike's shirt clung to her upper body with a sense of protection that she could get nowhere else.

Even Zack and Rosie didn't have much to take along.  The demon hunter was obviously partial to a few weapons, despite the numerous reassurances that Giles had a collection that rivaled the size of a rather large arsenal.  The girl had only insisted that Dr. Haller be with her; the infamous Barbies, she decided, were better left behind.   

"Don't let Nikki drive you too crazy while I'm gone," Wright said with a thin grin after the Witch retreated upstairs to collect his sleeping daughter.  "Trust me, if you think she's bad with supervision…"

Gunn rolled his eyes.  "You're tellin' me she gets worse?"

He shrugged in turn.  "What can I say?  I taught her well.  Be glad she likes you guys."

The other man glanced to Wesley with growing skepticism.  "She _likes _us?"

"She likes everyone except Spike and Buffy," Cordelia offered.  "Well, she doesn't really blame Buffy for anything, but being a vamp by default…"

The Slayer shrugged.  "That's all right.  Hell, just two months ago, that was me."

Gunn snickered.  "Knowing your track record, she'll likely fall head over for Angel."

A smirk tickled Spike's lips.  "Praise God.  Those two bloody deserve each other."

Buffy rolled her eyes good-naturedly and jabbed him in the side before turning her attention back to the others.  "Will you tell Lindsey thank you?" she asked, not caring who answered.  "If you see him again…I know we didn't exactly become bestest buds, but he did help us where it counted."

"Oh," Wesley replied with a wry grin.  "I'm certain we will see Lindsey again.  Despite however much we try, our association with him never seems to alleviate.  Even after Angel chopped off his hand."

"Angel's the one that did that?"

Cordelia nodded.  "Among other things."

"Ouch," Tara commented with a frown, catching the tag as she cradled an immensely sleepy Rosie at her shoulder.  The girl had been warm and snuggled in her bed, even though it was still considerably early to a group of reputed night owls, but they had to get going if they hoped to be in Sunnydale before dawn could fry any vulnerable flesh.  The girl's small arms were curled snuggly around the Witch's neck, wisps of dirty blonde hair pressed to her forehead.  "Not to anything specific," she clarified when everyone glanced at her curiously.  It was a semblance of comfort how she failed to stutter at their sudden scrutiny.  And even that would be gone soon.  "I just like my hands."

Wright smiled gently and held out his arms for Rosie.  The Witch scowled and shook her head, instead moving to the car after she had waved at everyone with a shy farewell.

Spike chuckled.  "You're li'l girl's a bloody charmer," he observed.  "She's stolen everyone's heart."

"She's one of those special kids who's actually special and not just so because their parent likes to brag."

Buffy arched a brow.  "And I'm sure you never brag."

The demon hunter shrugged with a shameless grin.  "Me?  Brag?"  He exchanged a conspiratorial glance with the platinum vampire.  "Perish the thought."

Things grew silent then for a long minute.  There wasn't much to say that hadn't already been said.  Everything else was another cornerstone in stalling the inevitable.

Cordelia glanced up, gaze centered on Spike.  "Are you sure?"

She was very careful not look at Buffy.  While the two women had grown fond of each other since her botched rescue, they weren't close.  They had a long road to tread before they could call themselves friends. 

Spike, on the other hand, was everyone's friend.  And it was going to be hard watching him leave.

The peroxide vampire exhaled slowly and glanced to the Slayer, having no such qualms.  "Yeh, pet," he said.  "'m sure."

"Well, then, come here, you big dope."  The Seer opened her arms wide and took him into a massive bear hug.  If she had possessed the strength, she would never have let him go.  "Argh, you're gonna make my eyeliner run."

"So sorry."

"You know you're welcome back any time, okay?"

Spike nodded, patting her back with calm reassurance.  "Yeh.  An' trust me, I'll be takin' you up on that."

"We'll kick Angel out and everything."  She pulled back, wiping her eyes with shades of self-irritation.  Cordelia wasn't one to allow herself tears at the flick of a wrist, and the sight alone sent shards of recognition of what his leaving meant to her.  "Not for good, you know.  Just so you two don't kill each other."

"What happened to the group consensus idea?" Wesley demanded, though there was no ill intent behind his voice.

Wright shrugged.  "I'm partner and I have one of our most valuable employees on our side.  Fuck consensus."

"Make that three against one."  Gunn flashed the peroxide vampire a grin.  "'Sides, the missus isn't gonna let you up here all that often."

Buffy pouted.  "Hey.  I'm gonna miss you guys, too."

"I know, girl.  Just hassling you."

"Stop hasslin' my girl," Spike berated good-naturedly.  "That's my job."

"You're not helping, you know."

"Well, he's gonna have to come back," Gunn decided.  "After what we saw earlier tonight, Lorne's likely gonna try to book you once every other weekend.  Man, I still can't believe you finally did Billy—"

"'S not an original—"

"Still," Cordelia intervened with a shrug, "he _does _sing it, and you sang it in manner of him."

Wesley nodded his agreement.  "Very well, I might add."

"Thanks ever so."

A grin sprouted across Buffy's lips and she wrapped an arm around Spike's middle in a manner of such noteworthy intimacy that his throat constricted with emotion.  He didn't know if she realized the little everyday things that screamed levels of her affection in ways that words could never emphasize.  The feel of her arms about his waist sent ripples of pleasure across his skin; not merely for the sensation, but for what he knew brought her there in the first place.

It was a pleasant distraction from the more palpable departure that loomed over him, growing in influential strength.  With every second that ticked by, he dreaded goodbye with more severity than he had ever thought to experience.  It wasn't as though he thoroughly abhorred Sunnydale—well, it was, but the town had given him a list of good to coincide with the never-ending bad.  There was a certain measure of chaos that his nature demanded he respect.  More over, the town had seen his introduction to the woman in his arms.  In many ways, the good outweighed the bad.

In many more, it didn't.  Los Angeles, in the time since his arrival, had managed to create more history in a few short weeks than Sunnydale had in four years.  These people were his friends; the only beings that had accepted him in the long spans of his lifetime.  

It was almost like having family.  And that was something he had never truly been allowed.

He didn't want to leave.  Not if he was truly honest with himself.

And they weren't making it easy.

"Hey," Buffy murmured, nudging him gently.  "You okay?"

Spike forced a weak smile to his lips.  "Yeh, luv.  Never better."   He nodded to the others, clearing his throat self-consciously.  "Well, guess this is it."

Wesley's brows arched.  "Don't feel the need to get overly emotional."

"I jus' don' do goodbyes very well."  He offered the former Watcher a dry grin.  "But I do…at the risk of makin' Cordy here even more blubbery than she is now—"

"I'm not blubbery," the Seer sniveled pitifully.

Spike's eyes narrowed.

"I'm not!"

"Right.  But…" A sigh commanded his throat.  "You…the lot of you useless wankers…" A mutual chuckle rang through the air at the melancholy note in the vampire's tone that made them all well aware that his words were intended in the very best fashion.  If not, the wealth of his feeling poured through his eyes to satisfy any such qualm.  After a few unsuccessful attempts at humor, his shoulders slumped and he gave up, wrestling instead for the plain truth.  "Okay, here it goes.  I…you all have been bloody great.  'S been…workin' with you…"  God, he hated speechlessness, and his scowl plainly told them so.  "Don' make me say it!"

"We know, man," Gunn intervened earnestly.  "It's more than mutual."

"I wish there was some arrangement we could come to," Wesley observed.  "You have proven more than just a strong colleague, Spike.  You're a vital asset to the team as well.  We've grown…accustomed to your face."

The peroxide vampire smiled and decided not to continue with the unvoiced _'I almost make the day begin.' _ He doubted anyone besides himself and the Watcher had ever seen _My Fair Lady _anyway.  As it was, his throat had tightened even further.  Never before had he considered himself a vital asset to anything, much less been told such at point blank.  It only served to make everything harder.  "Thanks," he replied numbly.  "The lot of you haven't been half-bad, either."

Gunn sighed dramatically and shook his head.  "Man," he complained, "you're throwing our entire system out of whack."

A scowl darkened Buffy's face.  "Are you all _trying _to make me feel guilty?"

There were a few sheepish glances traded before a congenial series of nods and mumbled confirmations swept the night air.

"Is it working?" Wesley wondered.

"Yes."

Spike snickered and rolled his eyes good-naturedly.  "Stop givin' my lady grief."

"That's your job," Cordelia replied with a weak grin.

"Bloody right."

The Slayer exhaled deeply, brow furrowing in thought.  "Well," she said, "nothing is ever final, you know.  I owe you all so much…more than a hasty decision about something like this, followed by 'end of story.'  I…we'll have to talk about it."

The thought alone was enough to make the platinum vampire's eyes brighten with hope and love that would never know a limit.  Even if nothing ever came of it, there was that promise of growth that he had forbidden himself from feeling.  "'S a nice thought," he retorted genuinely in a manner that hardly broached his thankfulness for her consideration.  "But I couldn't take you from your mates."

"So it's fair that I take you from yours?"

"She makes a good point," Gunn nudged encouragingly.

Wright nodded.  "Very good."

"Very, very good."

It was Wesley's turn.  He shrugged after he realized that all were looking at him expectantly.  "I would add my encouragement, but I thought it would be highly redundant."

That didn't rest well with Cordelia, who pouted petulantly when her desire was not instantaneously appeased.  "It's not like Sunnydale is that far away."

"Watch it," Zack warned, holding up a hand.  "That argument can be used for either side."  He turned to Spike with a wane smile.  "We really better be going."

"Yeh.  I jus'…" 

"You're not getting away this easily," the Seer argued decisively.  "We won't give up until you're on the payroll."

"'Preciate the sentiment, luv."

"It's not all sentiment."  She turned to Buffy with shades of weary defeat.  "You…you take care of him, all right?"

The Slayer smiled gently and nodded, despite the mock-offended look that overcame her companion at the notion that he needed a keeper.  "Don't worry, Cordy.  I know what I have."

"Good."  The Seer hesitated at that, then offered a genuinely warm smile.  "You're not as lame as I remember."

"You're not as bitchy."

"I can be."

Buffy grinned.  "I don't doubt it."

"Good.  You shouldn't."  The brunette tilted her head considerately.  "We _could _be friends, you know."

Gunn nodded.  "Girl, you got some real muscle.  I'm all down with the Slayer stuff and whatnot, but _damn.  _It's gonna be rough adjustin' to you not being around."

Her eyes narrowed.  "You haven't even seen me in action."

"Really, you haven't," Spike agreed.  "She's bloody poetry in motion."

The other man shrugged easily.  "All the more reason to come back, is what I'm sayin'."

"We don't need a reason like that."

"It's better than none."  He favored her with a sincere smile and nodded as if to articulate his respect.  "It's been fun gettin' to know you, Buff.  You're everything he said, plus some."

A smile rose to her lips and she shifted self-consciously from one foot to the other.  "Gee," she said, "you guys make it sound like we're never gonna see you again."

"With another apocalypse potentially on the home front, one can never be too sure," Wesley observed.

"Touché."

Spike nodded and wrapped an arm around the Slayer to steer her toward the car.  "Speakin' of," he said.  "We better be headin' out.  Don' burn the place down or what all without my stunnin' guidance to keep the lot of you from makin' right asses of yourselves."

"Don't worry," Cordelia replied.  "We'll have Angel back, soon."

He smirked in turn.  "All the more reason to head out now rather than later."

"Well, if he doesn't come back 'cause of his guilt trip, you owe us one vampire," Gunn observed.  "Any volunteers?"

Wright snickered.  "You really don't mind pushing it, do you?"

"Not even a little bit."

He chuckled his appreciation before turning to face the whole of them.  "I would say goodbye," he noted, "but I'm gonna be back soon, so there's really no point.  Go in, kick some ass, get out.  The norm."

"Sounds reasonable," Wesley agreed.

"Just don't take too long," Gunn added drolly.  "We don't wanna have to deal with your little sis-in-law solo longer than needed, if you catch my drift."

The demon hunter smiled.  "She's actually all right if you give her a chance to be.  She learned right alongside me everything she knows.  Give her something sharp and tell her where to aim it.  That oughta keep her happy."

Cordelia offered a wane smile and stepped forward.  "You sure this isn't just a clever way to escape?" she jested, ignoring the slightly shrill note in her voice that suggested there might be truth to neurotic accusation.  "I mean, you get the world's most popular vamp, Rosie, and a bail-on-Nikki card.  You're really coming back?"

He looked at her for a long minute as though contemplating the proposition.

It was evidently a beat longer than she had anticipated.  The Seer furrowed with defense.  "Zack!"

A wide grin broke across his rugged face, and he leaned in to kiss her breathless.  "I'm coming back," he promised with a wink.  "Gotta be here for all my girls, right?"

She made a face at him.  "Whatever."

"Right."  He nudged Spike to the car, and the vampire followed without any sense of whimsy.  The hunter in turn took position at the back passenger side door and nodded his acknowledgement.  "I'll be back."

"So you keep saying."

"I will be."

Spike snickered wryly and shook his head, breaking in a beat to wave.  "Bye," he offered blandly.  "Have fun, keep busy, don' die, an' all that rot."

"Yeah, man," Gunn retorted.  "Love you, too."

"Aw, Charlie.  I din't know you cared!"

The other man rolled his eyes.  "God, it's gonna be worth it to get rid of you if only to not hear that—"

"See yah later, Charlie," Zack interceded with a wink, causing a roar of jovial approval to zest through his vampiric companion.  "You too, Wes."

"Good luck," the Watcher offered in turn.

Spike and Buffy disappeared into the Desoto with a final wave before the goodbyes grew out of hand with sentiments of continued poignancy that no one wanted to dwell on.  Wright turned to Cordelia and winked on the same note, nodding with his familiar cocky leer.  

"I'll be back," he promised one last time.  "'Cause I love you."

That was it.  He had shut himself inside the car before the frozen look of astonishment had time to fade from her eyes.  The engines were revved when she shook herself to her senses, and they had pulled away at an uncanny speed before she could scream her fury at him for his random revelation.

Gunn and Wesley, however, found the matter entirely too amusing.

"Trust him to pull a stunt like that," the former appraised, shaking his head.

"Bloody priceless," the Watcher agreed.  "You all right, Cordelia?"

She didn't answer.  She was staring at the abandoned path where the Desoto had sat just seconds before.

"Cordelia?"

Nothing.  Then a slow, pensive blink.  She turned to him with an arched brow.

"Everything all right?"

"All right?" she repeated incredulously.  "All right?!  That little sucker didn't even let me…I swear I'm gonna…" She stopped herself before a tangent could erupt from her lips, flexed her hands mechanically, and flashed a brilliant smile.  "Oh yeah, I'm all right.  But he's _so _gonna get it when he comes back."

"Yeah," Gunn retorted.  "I'll bet."

"And not the good kind of 'get it'."

"Oh, I know.  I learned not to cross you a _long _time ago."  

She smiled and they turned as one back to the hotel.

The hotel that was emptier now than it had been for weeks.

"All right, guys." Cordelia brazenly tossed an arm over either of her colleagues' shoulders, falling into comfortable syncopation.  This was what they did.  This was what they were good at.  The world on their heels at all times.  And it never ended, despite the calls for home.  "What's next?"

Oddly enough, they wouldn't have it any other way.

*~*~*

The highway was a dark blanket of endless wet pavement, glimmering to the occasional brilliance of selective streetlights.  She didn't know when it had rained— possibly on the outskirts of town while they were kept at Caritas.  Either way, it didn't seem to matter.  All that mattered now was the road ahead.  The one that irrevocably led home.

Home.

"Jodi Foster who was in _Silence of the Lambs _with Anthony Hopkins who was in _Howard's End _with Emma Thompson who was in _Much Ado About Nothing _with Kenneth Branagh who was in _Love's Labour's Lost _with Mathew Lillard," Wright proclaimed proudly, sitting back and shooting a triumphant look at Tara.

Spike's eyes flickered with lazy amusement to the back.  "You do realize," he drolled, "that two of the flicks you jus' named were adaptations of Shakespearean plays."

The demon hunter shrugged easily.  "Your point being?"

"That you're a wankerish poof."

"Hey, you knew what they were, too," the other man retorted.  "I wouldn't be calling anything black, Mr. Pot."

"Are you insinuatin' what I _think _you're insinuatin'?"

Wright grinned.  "Well, I am _now, _thanks to your paranoia.

Buffy shook her head with a short laugh.  "You two are impossible."

"Yeh," Spike agreed.  "We're gonna drive Harris up the wall."

"Everyone's gonna be so glad to see you," Tara voiced from the back, absently stroking loose strands of hair from Rosie's eyes and nodding at the Slayer.  The child was still fast sleep, leaning on her father and emanating the occasional snore, but no one could deny the attention she beckoned to herself.  She was a beacon of warmth in everything she did; it was impossible not to be drawn to her.  "Dawn and Joyce…they've been so worried.  And Giles…"

A long, forced sigh slithered through Buffy's lips and she offered a weak nod of similar regard.  "It will be nice to see them," she said.

And it was true.  Mostly.

True all except for the spool of dread that she had managed to push aside for the past few days.  The same that was growing now with influential persistence that she couldn't abide.  Her entire gut constricted with premonition.  

As if sensing her sudden mood swing, Spike flashed her a concerned glance and reached over to squeeze her knee with intimate reassurance.  Buffy felt her insides melting at the mere power of suggestion.  She knew he loved her; he said it with practically everything he did.  Every look he gave, every touch he indulged, every everything that made him who he was.  It was easy to be with him: easier than she would have ever suspected.  And she loved him completely in turn.  Their relationship was casual and heavy on the same chord.  He was the first man that had ever been in her life as a friend and a lover.  He was the only one who wanted both sides—all sides—to her.  The Slayer included.

He was the normal she had always wanted.  The normal she thought she had with Riley, but didn't.  Riley had loved her and wanted to play the friendship card as well, but the Slayer got in the way.  The Slayer foiled their relationship.  The Slayer was what separated her on the axis from ever having that craved normality.  And now she had it with the least normal man on the planet.

"Buffy, luv?" he asked gently.  "Are you all right?"

She blinked herself to the present and reassured him with a forced smile.  The look of concern failed to dissipate from his eyes; he clearly didn't believe her, but nodded all the same, turning his attention back to the road.

They were going back.  To Sunnydale.  The town that was still there after all that had happened.  To the life she had known for so long, yet seemed so detached from.  Her room would be the same.  Her walls would still flourish with all those teeny bop posters she had never gotten around to removing.  Her bed wouldn't have changed.  Her clothing would still be there, and she was willing to bet Mr. Gordo was nestled by the pillow where she had left him the morning before Darla and Drusilla blew into town and knocked her routinely stable, if not a little bizarre, life fully out of whack.

For the first time in days, her defenses crumbled and she saw Angelus has he had been.  And her body ached with the thought of it.

It was the non-reality she had warned Wright about.  And it was coming back.  

Because soon, the reality she had left behind would be back as well.  And her two worlds would collide on a battleground of showdowns.  In the car were those she had with taken with her.  Buffy the Vampire alongside her two sires, one in deed and the other in action.  With the love of her eternity, the vampire that none of her friends approved of.  The same that they didn't know because of their own prejudice.  The prejudice she had instilled in them years ago.

Seeing them would make everything even realer than it had been.  The scatterings of her life gathered in a field for the wind to play with.  Her duty.  Her never-ending duty.  The calling that was supposed to relieve her with death.  And Glory.  Always Glory.

Always tied back to the same old.  

This one fight wasn't in her anymore.

And still, there was Spike.  Funny how the name had changed for her.  The name, the view, the feeling behind it.  No longer did she see him as a vampire; it amazed her now that she had ever.  But the memories were there.  Watching his approach with the customary role of the eyes, the quick-witted bash at his intellect and competence, always seizing the opportunity to accuse him of some fictitious crime with an equally fictitious motive.  Ignoring him when he tried to help her.  Hitting him when it pleased her to do so.  Seeing him for the crime he committed rather than the man he was.  And yes, while the monster part of her man was something she would always have to remember, she had seen true monstrosity now.  She had been commanded to scream under its influence.  

Spike had none of that in him.  That was as clear to her as anything ever had been. 

And he had become so important to her in such a short amount of time.  She had never pictured herself a particularly needy woman when it came to men, and while the notion itself was distasteful, there was no other way to appease her senses.  Without him, she would survive.  That was what she did best.  Survived.  But her life would be something she didn't want it to be.  It would harden her top to bottom.

She had barely escaped her relationship with Angel with the better of her emotions, and that hadn't even been love.  This was.  

The Buffy that had been taken from the safety of her routine would never have allowed Spike to touch her the way he had.  To talk to her like a person.  Like he mattered.  The Buffy of Before would have resented the notion that he could ever mean any more to her than another potential dust-pile.  She had already hated him for being there when no one else was, for listening when no one else would.  For sitting on the porch with her in tacit comfort while she cried for her mother.  For consoling her on a patrol when life was catching up with her.  The Buffy of Before would never have made love with him the way she did.  Never have let him see the love and respect she had glowing behind her eyes and similarly never known the same behind his.  The Buffy of Before would have cheated herself of the real thing.  

And now they were going back to where the Buffy of Before lived.  The dread constricting her being doubled its influence.  Though the notion impossible—so far beyond what she thought to feel that even the thought made her hate herself—she hoped to whatever it was that the Buffy of Before stayed in the past where she belonged.  If Sunnydale had any dictation over what happened in her life, by sheer ambiance alone it might demand the return of everything she had left behind.  

For her sake, for Spike's sake, she couldn't let that happen.  She couldn't hurt him the way she had.  The thought alone made her sick.  He was the man she loved, and she would protect him from whatever it was that decided to utter a menacing word.

Even if it was herself.

Oh God.

It couldn't become like that.  She forbade it.  The man at her side had fought long and hard for her.  To prove himself where he shouldn't have needed.  Their relationship was not going to be hidden in shadows.  He would not be her guilty pleasure.  She would not let her intimidation dictate what she told her friends.  Buffy was in love with Spike, and whoever didn't accept him didn't accept her, either.

A shudder curled her spine.  

He had given up so much.  His friends.  Those that _did _accept him.  The unlikely alliance he had formed with everyone at Angel Investigations.  The friendship and affection he carried for Cordelia.  The teasing humor he enjoyed with Gunn.  The bookish intellect she had watched him secretly employ with Wesley.  And Wright.  The man in the backseat who was animatedly discussing the principles of a good football game.  While she didn't know the whole of their relationship, she knew enough to understand that it had begun on unstable ground only to form into a true friendship.  She hadn't known Spike to have any male friends, much less close ones.  And while he jested at the notion that Zack favored him above all his other chums, she knew he was secretly thrilled to be viewed as so invaluable.  To be that important to others—not because of what he was or what he could do, but for _who_ he was.     

He was giving up so much for her.  Friends.  Acceptance.  All factors owning into his personal happiness.

Buffy bit her lip in thought, settling back against the seat wearily.

It wasn't fair.

"I spy with my little eye something that begins with an 'R'," Tara was saying when she finally snapped back to the present.

"Rosie," Wright and Spike answered in virtually identical monotones.

The Witch blinked as though it was surprising.  "How did you—"

"Because you've been lookin' at nothin' else since we left the bloody hotel," the vampire retorted with a wry grin, flashing another glance into the rearview mirror.  "I _can _see you, you know.  The entire backseat of my car does pick up a reflection."

Tara pouted and sat back.  "Cheater."

"Oi!  How'd I cheat?"

"You forget that we don't have the comfort of a no reflection policy," Wright observed.

"Yeh, Zangy, aren't you s'posed to be on my side?"

The other man snickered. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Lorne did, actually," the vampire replied. "Said I'd already managed to conquer the bloody impossible.  Got a righteous anti-vamp demon hunter to play the part of my best mate in My Life As A Sodding Sitcom alongside my girl, the now vampiric vampire Slayer who, beyond my yen, actually loves me back."  He flashed her an affectionate smile that she returned best she could.  There it was; that spark of concern once more.  However, he did not dwell on it.  Something in his eyes forewarned that whatever he wanted to say was best kept for when they were alone.  "I won over Peaches's pals an' have a standing invite to crash their party, an' I got to be the hero for once."

"That's what he told you?" Tara asked.

The Cockney shrugged.  "That was the jist.  'E basically whapped me upside the head an' told me it was real.  Get bloody used to it.  Guess I kept expectin' to wake up."  He glanced into the rearview mirror again.  "'E have anythin' to tell you an' Cordy?"

Wright shook his head.  "No.  Well, nothing I understood."

"Bloody figures."

"I _think _it might've been something akin to you and me getting identical tailored blue suits and going around on a perpetual Mission from God."

The vampire barked a laugh at that.  "Sure thing, Elwood."

"God, have you seen _every _movie there is, or what?"

Spike offered a lazy shrug.  "What can I say, mate?  A hundred years an' a bloke gets bored."

Buffy fidgeted a bit at that but said nothing.  Her companion glanced at her again; no words were exchanged, though no one could deny the concern burning in his eyes.

"You think we can pull off at the next exit?" Tara asked suddenly.  "Potty break for us mortals?"

Wright's eyes widened as though he realized that he had been overdue for one as well.  "I second that motion."

"Yeh, sure thing."  The peroxide vampire tossed Buffy an amused glance and rolled his eyes playfully.  "Sodding ninnies."

She shrugged in turn.  "Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go."

"Amen, sistah!" Zack commended.

"And I gotta go," Tara agreed.  "As soon as possible would be preferable."

Spike cast a weary eye to the upcoming mileage sign and didn't bother to suppress the groan that rose instinctually to his lips.  "We're less than a half hour away from Sunnyhell," he complained.  "Can't you two…y'know…hold it?"

"Hold it?" they echoed in horrified unison.

Buffy placed a neutral hand on her sire's wrist, earning a long look of concession.  "Right," he grumbled.  "Right.  The two of you are lucky the lady's got a heart of bloody gold."

"Thanks Buffy!" Tara chirped.

The peroxide vampire smirked.  "Yeh, thanks."

"Oh, hush.  I haven't been dead as long as you have; I remember the pains of needing to go."

He grinned dryly.  "Ah, well.  Could use a bloody nightcap, anyway.  Figure I need to be good an' sloshed before I try to face the Scoobs, right?"

The reminder sent more shivers across her skin, but she forced a smile all the same.  "Oh yeah.  There's a good impression.  'Hey, Mom?  Remember the drunk, instable vampire that used to hang around and steal all our little marshmallows?  Yeah, he's my boyfriend now.'"

Spike adapted the most ridiculously adorable façade of giddiness.  "'Boyfriend,'" he repeated merrily.  "I bloody love that word."

"You're such a dork," Wright complained.

"This comin' from the bloke who jus' used the word _dork.  _How old are you again?"

Buffy's nose wrinkled and she twisted in her seat to look at him.  "Yeah," she agreed.  "That was a freakishly good impersonation of my sister."

"I don't care.  He's a dork."  The demon hunter shook his head.  "I can't believe you're the same vampire I did so much reading on."

Spike waved a hand dismissively.  "Books are overrated."

"They said you were one of the most dangerous vampires in history."

He began to reply before he caught the tag, and his eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas.  "Really?" he demanded.  "They said that 'bout me?"

Wright snorted.  "Yeah.  Sure.  Right under 'infinitely pussywhipped.'"

"Zack!" Tara admonished.

He shrugged lazily.  "What can I say, sweetheart?  Goes with the territory."

"I believe I've been insulted," the Slayer observed.

"That's it," Spike grumbled.  "'m rippin' your testicles off an' shovin' 'em down your throat."

"Hey!  That's not nice!"

"Well, apparently, I'm not nice."

Zack rolled his eyes.  "Yeesh.  Mr. Snippy."

Buffy and Spike exchanged a long, amused glance before simultaneously imploding in a sea of rich chuckles.

"What?" the demon hunter complained.  "I don't get it."

"Bloody hell, you've become Mr. Cordelia incarnate," the vampire gasped, laughing still.

There was an uncomfortable pause.  "I have not."

"The next time we see him," Buffy added, "he'll be wearing heels and reading those magazines that she sent him all over downtown LA to find."

"I hear that, luv."

"I have _not _become Cordelia incarnate."

Tara scowled and covered Rosie's ears precariously.  "Shh!" she hissed.  "Sleeping child!"

Wright shook his head facetiously.  "Don't worry about it," he replied.  "That girl can sleep through anything."

"'S a good thing, too," Spike observed, pulling into the first fill-up station he saw off the exit ramp.  "Buffy an' I can get kinda noisy."

"We know," the two in the back echoed together.

The Slayer merely flushed and didn't say a word.  Her lover shot her a winning smile and everyone piled out of the car.  The doors hadn't even had time to shut before Wright and Tara took off for the indoors in search of the much-needed facilities.

Buffy crossed her arms and seized the opportunity to stretch her legs.  "You getting gas?" she asked, leaning onto the hood of the car.

Spike shrugged.  "Might as well.  We'd make it to SunnyD all right, but 's gonna need it here before long."

She must have gone rigid at the mention of their destination again, for the next thing she knew, she had been pulled into a protective embrace, soothing hands gently caressing her temples and neck.  The sound of her own name reverberated with endless comfort through his chest, tickling the air with the full richness of his baritone before she realized that he was addressing her.

"Hmmm?"

"Sweetheart, talk to me.  What's wrong?"

Buffy stilled.  "What makes you think there's anything wrong?"

"Well, there's the fact that I've got eyes," he replied simplistically.  "Even ears, 'f you can imagine that.  Oh, an' there's that pesky li'l knowin' you thing I got goin' on.  Plus, 's bloody obvious."

Her nose wrinkled.  "How obvious?"

"So obvious that 'm willin' to wager that Zangy an' Glinda's bathroom break's gonna take a lot longer than planned, seein' as I rather doubt they needed to go that badly to begin with."

"They set us up?"

He shrugged.  "'S jus' a guess.  I think whatever 'business' they have to do inside coulda waited a half-hour.  Bugger li'l things like comfort.  Zangy's a demon hunter—he's trained for self-control.  Tara fancies a bit of hocus-pocus every now an' then.  You do the math."  The cool comfort of his palm found her cheek, sweeping through her hair once more as his lips caressed her forehead.  "Jus'…talk to me, baby.  Please.  We can't start this now.  Tell me what's wrong."

A sigh trembled through her body.  There was no sense hiding it.  "I'm afraid."

"Yeh, that much I got."  He kissed her forehead again, lingering a little longer this time.  "'S it Glory?"

"No.  I…it's everything."  Buffy's eyes drifted shut and she allowed herself to rest against him.  Against the fullness of his unvoiced protection and the completion of feeling.  "It's becoming real again.  Everything's becoming real.  The closer we get…" She sighed.  "I'm afraid of Sunnydale."

He paused for a second to digest that one and opted to rumble a humorless chuckle.  "There's a bloody first."

"Not the town, Spike.  The everything that goes along with it."  

She felt him stiffen again, trying to decode her meaning and coming closer than anyone else in his position ever would have.  The ripples of strength he poured into her were worth more than anything she could have been given, and she wondered if he knew that.  "You're afraid of what the Scoobies will say," he murmured into her hair.  "'Bout you an' me…an' us."

"The vamp thing will be blamed on you."

He shrugged.  "I expected it."

"It's not fair."

"Luv, you din't turn you into a vampire."

"No.  And neither did you.  Zack did."

He snorted.  "That won' fly with the lot of 'em, an' you know it.  He kinda lacks the essentials—for instance, fangs an' a nasty aversion to sunlight an' crosses.  Plus, he has a pulse."

"And even if he says he's responsible, they won't buy it."

"No, baby, they won't.  But s'all right."

Buffy shook her head against him.  "It's not.  It's not all right.  Nothing ever…" She paused to catch herself, everything rushing to her mouth at once.  "I might have changed, but they won't.  They never will.  They'll always hate you, and they'll never shy to tell you how much.  And I can't stand that.  You and me and the 'together' thing, it's great."  She felt his smile without needing to see his face.  "It's more than great.  It's…I love you."

"I love you, too.  So bloody much."

"Enough to do this?"

Spike frowned.  "Do what?  I'm not followin'."

_"This.  _You, me, Sunnydale.  You and I have never done the 'you and I' thing in Sunnydale."

There was a long pause.  "I might be a simpleton, but I think even a bloody rocket scientist would have trouble followin' you around that bend, luv.  Are you sayin' you think I won' want you when—"

"No.  Not that."  She shook her head and cursed her lack of eloquence.  "I'm taking you away from everything you want."

"Are you takin' me away from you?"

"…No."

"Then I don' see what the problem is."  He pulled away slightly so he could meet her eyes.  "Buffy, bein' in Sunnydale's not gonna change how I feel.  I've felt this way for a long bloody time.  Long before my relatives decided to muck with your life.  I went to Wanker Investigations for one purpose: you.  I got you.  Hell, I got you in ways I never bloody thought possible. I'm a happy bloke."  He paused in thought—the sort of silence that did not lend time for interruption.  "Your mates won' be happy with this.  I know that.  They won' be happy that you're suddenly room temperature an' definitely when they figure out who's at the blame-end of that nightmare.  They won' like that you love me, especially when news 'bout me bein' chipless hits the streets.  'S that what you're worried about, pet?  Me an'—"

"No.  I told you…as far as the chip goes, I trust you."  She smiled gently.  "You've gone to some pretty incredible lengths to keep me from getting hurt, Spike."

"An' you'd be hurt 'f I hurt someone else."

"You're a smart cookie."

"This 's what I'm sayin'."

Buffy looked at him for a long, complacent moment before her smile faded and she glanced down, nibbling thoughtfully on her lip.  "And when the day comes that that's not enough?" she asked softly.  "I have forever, and that's what I want with you.  The fulltime commitment thing.  I know that.  And hey—talk about gun-jumping.  We haven't even been together that long and I already want the full shebang."

"I—"

"But I'm not the long-haul girl.  Everyone in my life has been pretty adamant on letting me know that."  Without realizing it, her eyes had filled with tears, and she sniffled in vain, trying to turn to keep him from seeing what was plainly there in front of him.  "I have forever to live, Spike.  And forever's a pretty long time to be alone.  What happens when you resent me for keeping you from what you want?  What happens when you realize that I've done nothing but held you back?  What happens when you don't love me anymore, and you leave me like everyone else?"

That was it.  She had officially rendered him speechless.  The look on his face was enough to attest to that.  Morally shocked and offended, almost betrayed.  As though she had spat and staked him, then bathed in his ashes. 

When he finally did speak, it was with anger.  The sort of anger that was protecting feelings and love too strong for words. "You. Daft. Bint."

"Don't.  It's a valid question."

"The hell it is."

"Spike—"

"I don' know what you make of me, Buffy, but I am _not _one of the tossers you've known in the past.  You say it's forever for you?  It's bloody well forever for me too."  He snarled unpleasantly, eyes threatening to go yellow at the mere implication.  "God, you're infuriatin'.  You really have so li'l faith in me?  That I—"

"I'm not—"

"The long-haul girl.  Yeh.  Heard you the firs' time.  An' you know what?  Bull bloody shit.  I was with Dru for a fucking century.  You think anyone ever thought of her as a long-haul girl?  An' what I felt for her was a bloody fraction compared to what I feel for you."  He shook his head, seething in irritation.  "Vamps aren' s'posed to be monogamous, luv.  I am.  Always bloody well have been.  An' I don' do somethin' 'f I don' want to.  'F I'd wanted to stay in LA, I would've.  Simple as that.  You couldn't make me move 'f I din't want to.  The only place I wanna be 's with you, an' 'f you don' get that by now, I don' know what to do."  He paused and shook his head, laughing humorlessly.  "An' here, you'd think I'd be the one worried that you don' take our relationship as seriously as I do.  Unbloodybelievable.  I love you, Buffy.  I love you too fucking much to ever give you up.  There's no place you could go that I wouldn't find you, an' no place that I wanna go without you with me.  Bugger your friends, bugger _my _friends.  They have nothin' to do with us.  I won' let them intimidate me as long as you keep up your end."

"I—"

"Meanin', we do this, 's together.  I'm not gonna be workin' for shit here while you sit back an' kick up your heels."  He shook his head with conviction.  "'S real, baby.  Everythin' that happened 's real.  But I won' let you go through it again.  I'd wrestle the devil himself 'f it meant I could make it all go away.  I can't.  But I'm here.  An' I'll do whatever it takes."

The underlying story in his eyes told her everything needed to know and more.  There was something about a person's eyes that refused to hide anything of importance.  He was like that; in words and passion.  Perhaps had he the means, he would conceal what he felt.  He couldn't, and she wouldn't have him so.  There was a difference between knowing what one said and meaning it—he had them both.

And it dawned on her without anything else at all.  The knowledge that she had been searching for since before she knew what it was that she needed.

This was it.  Despite whatever happened from here on out, this was it.  This was her it.  The reason the others had left her layered with the understanding that she had never experienced the crucial _it _before.  She had now.

He was still on his tangent when her eyes sparkled with the full of comprehension.  With knowledge.  He even got in a few muffled words after she pulled him to her and ravaged his mouth with everything she felt, tasting the full of him without abandon.  It only took a second; he moaned into her with the rawness of feeling, sampling everything there that she had to offer.  His.  All his.  The first means to an end either had ever known.

Strength now.  They could do this.  They could face the past and start a future.  They could know heat in the middle of a winter storm.  For all that was behind them, there was only the ahead to look to.  

Spike pulled back and smiled into her eyes, caressing her cheek.  "'The changes that she brings are without respite,'" he quoted softly.  "'It is a necessity that makes her swift; an' for this reason, men change state so often.'"

The words were hauntingly beautiful, but they were kissing again before she could question their origin.  It didn't matter.  Another time.

The weight of penance bought with peace.  

It began now.

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-Seven:  _Bring on the Rain_…**


	48. Bring on the Rain

**A/N: **If anyone's been following the news, on April 25th, reportedly the largest march in US History took place in Washington DC—Kimmie and I got to go.  It was fantastic.  The event itself was a March for Women's Lives and was likely one of the most profound experiences in my own.  The only disappointment was a lack of the promised few speakers from the West Wing cast—Martin Sheen, Stockard Channing, Bradley Witford, etc.  (Kimmie was more upset than myself, as she is madly in love with Josh/Bradley Witford.  It's understandable.  As I reiterated many times over the weekend, I'd feel the same if James was on the list of speakers but not at the actual event).  It wasalso a bummer that Ewan McGregor didn't show.  But there were cool speakers like Ashley Judd and Susan Sarandon.  (There were more…those were the ones we got to listen to until we discovered that the West Wing guys were elsewhere) Anyway, that's way off topic, but I thought I'd share.

Kudos to Karen, Alibabwa, and Kat for correctly naming the piece and origin that Buffy sang at Caritas.  

We're getting close to the end.  Just three chapters and an epilogue left.  

****

****

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

**Bring on the Rain**

The entire world could change several times over and still leave Sunnydale unaltered and sitting at the wayside of revolutionary recognition.  True, not much time had passed in hindsight, but even the slightest points of commemoration remained as they had been.  The Sun was still showing the Jim Carrey movie she and the others—except Xander and, by default, Anya—had boycotted.  Her favorite strip-malls were exhibiting the same sales.  The diner she and Willow often chose for coffee had the same worn specials scribbled on the front chalkboard.  As though time had stopped the moment she was taken.  Stopped and somehow gone on.  Existed without existing.

The thought sent shivers down her spine.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder and she knew she must have been quivering with more enunciation than she realized.  She tossed Spike a grateful smile and nodded, grasping his fingers with her own and holding him there as her life weight.  

"So," Wright said from the back.  "This is it, huh?  Home sweet Hellmouth."

Tara smiled.  "That's actually what we call it."

"Wow…that's sad."

Spike snickered and shook his head.  "You're tellin' me."

"So where's the Casa de la Summers?" the other man continued, leaning forward as though such movement would grant him a better view of the town.  "Your family have an extra room, or will I have to cough up enough to put me and Pigtails up for the night?"  He flashed a quick glance at Tara.  "I would ask you, but I think that'd be too forward."

The platinum vampire tossed a mildly amused look into the rearview mirror.  "What 'bout me?" he demanded with a mock-pout.  "You wouldn't even deign to ask your _best friend?"_

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Not for this lifetime."

"Well, anyway, _pal," _he drawled, "I figured you were staying with your sweetie-pie, since you two have practically been joined at the hip since you…well…joined."  He made an unpleasant face and survived a well-deserved thwap from Tara, who blushed in their favor.  "And since I don't wanna be anywhere near that room of sin, I was just wondering if there was a spare or if the local motel has a vacancy for the night or few that we'll be here."

Buffy pursed her lips at that, hazarding a glance in her companion's direction.  "Actually," she said hesitantly.  "You can take my room."

Wright's gaze went wide and his hands came up in protest.  "Whatever kinky sex games you two have planned, keep me out of it."

"The Slayer's stayin' with me tonight," Spike told him, rolling his eyes.  "You only wish you could get that lucky, mate."

Tara frowned.  "Staying with you?  I-in the graveyard?"

"It's not as serial killer as it sounds," Buffy said with a shrug.  Then she paused with thought.  "Well, not as much as it _could _be, I guess."

The peroxide vampire favored her with a long sideways leer.  "Your vouch of good faith is all a bloke needs nowadays."

"Hey, give me some credit.  Two months ago, even _mention_ of a Thriller-style slumber party would've been stake-worthy."

He grinned in turn.  "That's my girl.  Always the picture of open-minded optimism."

"Well, I wasn't the nicest person to you—"

"We've already covered this, luv," he objected coolly, holding up a hand.  "All's well that end's well…an' your end is definitely well."

She smirked and whacked his arm, earning a loving gaze in turn.

"Might I observe that it hasn't ended at all?" Wright volunteered.  "We still have some mystic bitch to fight that you managed to go the entire trip without talking about."

"It's called avoidance, Zack.  If I don't see it, it doesn't exist."

Spike tossed her a mildly amused glance.  "Tell me one time that philosophy has worked.  Anytime will do.  An' isn't that how that one bird turned into inviso-girl?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Angel tends to talk when he's evil, as I'm sure you observed."

"Yeah," the Slayer agreed under her breath.  "Amongst other things."

The peroxide vampire instantly sobered, gaze going wide with regret and more than regret.  There was such poignancy and pain behind his expression that it made her heart ache.  "Buffy—"

She smiled neutrally, cutting him off with nothing more.  "Hey, no big.  It happens to the best of us."

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence.  

"A-about Glory," Tara said boldly, turning back to Wright, "we'll give you the basics and stuff when we get to Buffy's.  I'm sure Giles c-can explain it better than anyone here.  Plus, the Council told us more after we arrived in England.  A lot more."

The Cockney and the Slayer traded another long glance.  Unfortunately, their stealth wasn't enough to deter the man in the back who was built for that sort of observation.  The merest twitch could not go unnoticed.

"What?" he insisted instantly.  "What's going on?  What do you two know that we don't?"

Buffy nibbled her lip in thought and drew in a deep breath, turning in her seat.  "Well, when we said that I'm staying with Spike…it sort've means I'm not going home tonight.  At all.  We're just dropping you guys off, then we're heading to his place."

"You're not going in?" the Witch demanded.  "Not even to say 'hi'?"

She shook her head.  "I'm not ready…and I need tonight to get ready.  Just one more night to myself."  There was a second's hesitation before she reached over to take Spike's hand in hers.  "To _ourselves_."

The two in the back exchanged a long glance.    

"You know," Wright observed.  "This is gonna make them even more edgy.  Are you sure you're just not avoiding the entire thing purposefully?"

"No.  That's sort've the point."

Spike tossed another annoyed look into the mirror, uncaring if it went unseen.  "The Slayer's made her decision, so drop it."

Tara nibbled on her lip worriedly.  "What happens when they ask where you are and why I came home with a strange man and not…well…you?"

There was another pensive pause at that; Buffy and her sire traded a long look, sharing more with a single look than hours of conversation could afford.  When he flashed her an encouraging smile, she nodded in turn and inhaled with droll consideration.  "Tell them I'm not ready to deal with everything just yet…and no, while I won't be ready tomorrow, either, I _do _need this time to myself.  Just to…to take everything in."

The Witch nodded self-consciously.  "Um…okay.  And when they ask where you're staying…do you want me to say hotel or—" 

"No.  I'm not gonna hide."

Spike smiled but said nothing.

Tara blinked.  "I didn't mean to—"

"The last thing I am is ashamed, so I don't see a need to lie to them when I have absolutely no intention of keeping this hush-hush.  I know you and the others won't be able to grasp that immediately, but that's the way it is.  And they'll know that tomorrow.  Tonight, they can play the guessing game."  The Slayer glanced to the platinum vampire once more, a smile stretching her face.  "I'm spending time alone because that's what I need."

"Only you won't be alone," Wright said obviously.  "And color me stupid, but that's what they're gonna object to, right?"

"Then tell them I'm with Spike and let them come to their own conclusions.  All right?"

A long pause filled the air.

Tara shrugged with concession.  "All right, Buffy.  If that's what you want."

"It is."

The Witch nodded, pursing her lips considerately.  "I know you don't think I get it…but I do.  I do.  And just for the record…you two have my support.  Spike, you can be scary—"

He beamed at that.  "Thanks, pet."

"—but you're a good guy." She grinned shyly.  "You've been great these past couple of days.  It's really, really obvious that you love her very much."

Wright rolled his eyes good-naturedly.  "Oh, please."

Buffy scowled at him.  "Shut up.  It's sweet."

It wasn't physically possible for Spike's grin to grow any wider.  "Thank you, Glinda," he replied earnestly.  "You couldn't be any more correct."  

"Awww…" The Slayer shimmied over to her lover, cuddling in an overly cute manner into his side and peppering his throat with soft kisses.  "You're adorable."

"Am not."

"Are too."

There were duo groans from the back.  "Oh, please."

Spike grinned and arched Buffy a cocky brow that would have served to annoy if he could for one instant disguise his affection from glowing so emphatically.  "Got more where that comes from then, luv," he drawled, taking her hand and placing it on the crotch of his jeans.  "'F you know what I mean."

The look in his eyes had all the markings of a good challenge and sufficiently wiped away any sort of offense she could have possibly conjured up.  Thus, with a belatedly wicked smile, she leaned forward to nibble suggestively at his throat while her hand squeezed a long, pitiful whimper into the air.

"Okay," Wright said slowly from the back.  "Officially scarred for life.  I've seen a lot of things in my time that could do it…but this takes the cake."

Amazingly, Tara didn't look affronted at all.  

"I take it you're used to this sort of thing?"

"Oh," she said with a dismissive wave.  "You haven't met Anya yet.  This is nothing."

"And yet the pussywhipped remark made your claws extend."  

"What can I say?" she offered with a shrug.  "I'm versatile."

Spike and Buffy managed to dislodge long enough for the former to pull into 1630 Revello Drive, not without observing the shudder that ran across the Slayer's skin.  Yes, it was still there.  Like the rest of the town, her house had refused to adapt to the changes in her life.  With a sigh, he killed the engine and nodded at the front door.  "All right, kiddies," he drawled.  "This is it.  Collect whatever baggies or small children you brought along with you an' scamper off."

"This is your house?" Wright asked, impressed as Tara scampered out to unpack the back.  

Buffy nodded.  

"Wow.  It's…a house."

Spike tossed him an irate glance.  "What'd you bloody expect, a cardboard box?"

"No, it's just…houses.  Haven't had one of those in a while."  He offered a kind smile and patted the Slayer on the back with ceaseless encouragement.  "We'll fend the herd tonight, Buff.  You get some rest."

She nodded warmly at that.  "Thanks."

"I mean it.  Get some _rest.  _You know, that thing that's not sex?  No horse play."

The platinum vampire pouted morosely at that.  "Party-pooper."

Zack chuckled, lifting the still-sleeping child into his arms and waiting as Tara collected her things.  "Restfield, right?"

Spike arched a brow.  "You're the demon hunter.  You tell me."

"If I need to find you, I will."

"Suuuure…"

"I will.  And if I find any evidence of hanky panky, you two will be in big trouble."

The peroxide vampire delivered a mock salute.  "Aye, aye, cap'n.  Everythin' unloaded?"

Tara nodded, slamming the trunk shut.  "Everything that needs to be."

"Then we're gone."

"You know what to do when they ask you, right?" Buffy inquired, leaning over Spike to be heard out the window.  Not that he minded, of course.

Wright nodded with a grim smile, running his hands through his sleeping daughter's hair.  "You're downtown selling your body for drug money."

"Ha ha."

"Right," the peroxide vampire said decisively.  "We're out.  One of the Scoobies'll be able to send you in the right direction 'f your oh-so fabulous trackin' skills fail you.  'Course, that's assumin' you'll need to find us in the firs' place."

The demon hunter's smile turned into a smirk.  "You're a riot."

"I try my best."  He nodded at Rosie.  "Tell the Bit to not listen to anythin' that wanker Harris has to say."

"Gotcha."

"Hey!" Buffy and Tara cried in protest.  The vampire merely grinned.

"Right, luv," he said, turning back to the Slayer.  "You ready?"

There was a moment's hesitation, but she nodded all the same, a resolute expression set in her features.  "I'm ready," she said.  "Take me home."

Spike looked at her with the kindest smile she had ever seen, and it touched her heart with more of the same.  Home wasn't a crypt—not to her, but wherever he was.  And if that was where he chose to be, then by golly, that was where she would be, too.  

Though the prospect of an apartment was sounding better and better.

"You got it, sweetheart."

They were gone the next instant.  Buffy had never been more relieved to turn off her street in the whole of her family's duration in Sunnydale.

Tomorrow would be too soon, but it was one more day.  One more chance to get ready for the inevitable.

But that was where the line ended.  No more delays.

Thankfully she had tonight.

*~*~*

The door opened with the droll greeting of a blank stare.

"Whoa, Tara," Xander drawled in surprise.  "We send you for Buffy and you bring home a man.  Talk about a first.  Unless…" His eyes narrowed with artificial suspicion and he gave the demon hunter a skeptical once over.  "You _are _Buffy?"

Wright and the Witch exchanged weary glances.  "Let me guess," he began, arching his brow at the other man.  "Harris, right?"

"Ummm…yeah."  Xander frowned and stepped back, nudging the woman at his side with shades of paranoia.  "How did he do that?"

"Well, let's just say if Spike didn't tell me enough, Cordy filled me in on the full nine yards."  The demon hunter shook his head with a wry grin, stepping inward and bouncing lightly Rosie in his arms.  His gaze turned to the redhead with more of the same.  "In fact…let me go out on a limb and say you're Willow."

"That would be some good climbing," she replied lamely, eyes wide.  Then she turned to Tara.  "Who _is _this guy?"

A chuckle climbed up his throat.  Too easy.  "Sorry.  The name's Zack Wright.  I'm a friend of Spike's."

Xander didn't look convinced.  "Spike has friends?  Since when?"

"Don't go there," Tara interceded pleadingly.  "Please."

Zack's gaze narrowed and he shook his head without breaking eye contact.  "No, it's fine.  Really.  After all, this was me not too long ago.  And it's not like we didn't expect it."

"Uhhh…" Willow began sheepishly.  "Color me confused, but weren't you supposed to bring home someone more…umm…Buffyish than this guy?  No offense or anything."

"None taken."

"B-Buffy's here," Tara assured them, shaking lightly.  "She's here a-and she's fine.  S-she just d-decided that she needed some time t-to herself before she came home."

Xander and Willow exchanged worried glances.

"Time to herself?" the latter demanded.  "Is she okay?"

"Well, come on, Wills, of course she's not okay.  She's been a vamp chew-toy for weeks."  Harris's eyes narrowed.  "Well, where is she?"

"She decided to stay at Spike's tonight," Wright answered, gaze sparkling with challenge.  He knew instantly that the revelation was not what either expected to hear; their body language tensed on virtually the same beat and neither made any motion to guard their astonishment.  Thus, on that note, he decided to toss in the kitchen sink.  "She wanted to be somewhere where she feels comfortable."

The other man obviously wasn't buying it.  "Are you sure you brought home the right Buffy?"

"It's nothing—" Tara began.

"Look, she's been through a lot," Willow intervened, holding up a hand.  "And Spike…well, he was there with her.  Maybe she feels safe with him."

"And we're not rushing off to burst that bubble as quickly as possible…why?"

"Because she would kick your ass if you tried," Wright replied simply.  "She told me to tell you that."

Xander favored him with a blank stare.  "Who _are _you?"

"I'm just a guy who's here as a favor to Spike and Buffy, all right?  Something about a mega death-bitch you guys need help putting down."

"Look, pal, the last thing we need is some guy who just shows up from nowhere and—"

"He's the real deal, guys," Tara said firmly.  "The real, real deal.  And he's been doing it for a long time.  Trust me, it's a good thing he's here."

Willow frowned.  "Doing what for a long time?"

"I'm a demon hunter."  Wright leered at Xander nastily.  "A damn good one, too."

"And yet you're a friend of _Spike's."_

He shrugged in turn.  "It's a recent development.  We met, I almost killed him, we fought, we 'truced, and through some bizarre stuff that would give anyone nightmares, we ended up here."  An unpleasant smile colored his face.  "And if you need any other proof, just give Angel Investigations a ring.  Cordy'll set you straight."

"Cordy," Harris repeated numbly.  "As in the wonder-bitch."

A dark wave settled over the hunter.  "Watch it."

"He and Cordy are kind of a thing," Tara explained nervously.  

"There's also Wes and Charlie," Zack continued.  "And Lorne, but oh wait…he's a demon.  Nix that idea."

Willow laughed apprehensively.  "Well…you _are _a demon hunter…right?"

"An enlightened one, Red.  I've seen things you can't imagine…and a lot of them have been in the past month."

"Anyway, he's here to help."  Tara shrugged with a virtually identical nervous titter.  "Where's Giles, Joyce Dawn?  They'll want to know that Buffy's all right."

"Only we don't know that she's all right, do we?" Xander demanded.

"I wouldn't lie to you."

"Oh, I know.  But still, proof is of the essence."

Wright cocked his head challengingly.  "She's with Spike.  End of discussion."

"Can't even begin to tell you how much that does _not _make me feel better."

"Well, he did just risk his hide to save her.  You'd think that earn him some leverage."

Harris shook his head.  "I don't know what kind of demon hunter you are.  You see, in Sunnydale, leverage equals bad equals dead you.  And hello—Spike's a nasty killer."

"Trust me, boy, I know a whole lot more about nasty killers than you do."

Willow turned to Tara, desperate for distraction.  "Giles is at his house.  We're supposed to call him when you get in.  Dawnie's upstairs reading to Joyce—or she should be, and not watching television, but I haven't checked up on them in a while.  And Anya went for food.  She didn't want to order pizza…because there's a delivery charge and you know how she is."

The other Witch nodded her support.  "I know."

"Look…" Xander sighed diplomatically and shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose with tired exasperation.  "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.  Let's just…sit down and talk like normal people.  We should call Giles—"

"I don't see why," Willow retorted.  "If Buffy's not gonna be here until tomorrow."

"Then why don't we go to Spike's place and—"

"Were you not listening just a minute ago?" Wright snarled contemptuously.  Without waiting for a reply, he shook his head and nudged Tara to his side so he could navigate Rosie into her embrace.  "Take her and tell her when she wakes up that I'll be by to pick her up around ten tomorrow morning, all right?"

The child in question murmured a bit but did not awake.

The blonde Witch nodded, confused.  "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere where I'm not surrounded by hypocrisy."  The demon hunter snickered and moved for the front door.  "Besides, I better go make sure they're behaving themselves, right?  Made them promise and everything."

Tara's eyes widened.  "Zack—"

"I'll be back.  Tomorrow."  And that was it.  With a disgusted shake of his head, Wright pivoted and disappeared, slamming the door heartily behind him.

Xander blinked slowly after he was gone, turning to Willow torpidly.  "Did he say what I think he said?"

"It could've meant a number of things…"

Two sets of eyes fell on the blonde Witch expectantly, and she sighed nervously in turn.

"Oh, dear," she said with an apprehensive tweak.  "That did not go well at all."

*~*~*

Spike's hand came down on the table hard enough that one of the legs snapped, sending sawdust and splinters of wood across the floor of crypt.  The impact of the blow provoked a shrill cry from Buffy's throat and she jumped to her feet, scampering as far away from him as possible.  Though the danger had always been there, she had not anticipated such a violent display so soon, especially given his promise of gentility.

It took a second for him to regain control.  Slowly, their eyes met.

Then Buffy started laughing.

"Stop," he pouted.  "'S not funny."

That didn't seem to help.  Her amusement intensified and her hands dropped to her sides, holding herself in some form of habit as her body wracked with the impact of her mirth.  She made several ill-attempts to recollect control but only ended up laughing harder. 

"What?  I bloody well broke my coffee table.  'S not funny."

The Slayer drew to a silent beat at that as though the concept hadn't occurred to her.  

Then she was laughing again.

"Oh, that sodding does it."  Spike growled his discontent and jumped up, seizing her by the wrist and drawing her back to the sofa and into his lap.  She cried with feigned protest and squirmed in a poor attempt to escape, only to provoke further moans from her companion and a tighter hold on her body.  

"You…broke…the table," she gasped.

The peroxide vampire glared at her for another full minute before allowing a hint of a grin to cross his lips, his head ducking to escape introspection.  "I noticed," he murmured, brushing a kiss over the nape of her throat.

"You broke it…playing Egyptian Ratscrew."

Spike glanced down sheepishly.  "It was bloody well askin' for it.  An' 'sides, you were gonna enact your bloody Slayer plus vamp strength.  I had to—"

Buffy wiped her eyes with another blurb of laughter, shaking her head.  "Why didn't I see this side of you before?" she asked rhetorically, snuggling against him with a purr of satisfaction.

A grin tickled his lips as he gently caressed her back. "An' what side would that be?"

"The real you, I guess."  She sighed happily and leaned back, pulling him with her.  "Of course, you did try to kill me a few thousand times."

"I was jus' shy," he explained, straight-faced.  "I wanted to get your attention."

"Oh, is that it?"

"'Aven't you ever heard that boys are mean to the girlies they secretly wanna—"

Buffy slapped his shoulder, encouraging a rich chuckle.  "Well, yeah.  But I think you might've gone a little overboard with that."

He nodded.  "You think?"

"Just a little."  She murmured contentedly and stretched fully beneath him, running her hand across his face and smiled when he leaned into her touch.  "So, what do you do for fun around here?"

"Watch _Passions," _he replied with a shrug.  "Plot world domination.  Shag Harm."

A scowl crossed her face and she whacked his shoulder.

Spike chuckled again and brushed a kiss over her lips.  "You're cute when you're jealous."

"Me?  Jealous of that vapid airhead?  Puhlease."

"What she lacks in smarts she more than makes up for in—"

"Finish that sentence and you're never getting laid again."

"So says you."

"Spike!"

He was laughing in earnest now, prying fingers tickling her sides softly to coax a more neutral expression to her face.  "I love you, you daft bint," he told her.  "More than you'll ever know."

"So you decide to make jokes at my expense about screwing other girls?"

"I'd never, an' you bloody well know it. 'Sides…"  He leaned inward to nibble at her mouth again, suppressing a smile when she allowed him access without struggle.  "I believe you've effectively ruined me for all women.  After…everythin'.  This is it."

The most gorgeous pout he had ever seen crossed her lips.  "I better have ruined you."

"Trust me, pet."

Buffy leaned back against the sofa and enjoyed his casual, lazy attentions that were never without the full of feeling.  The sensation alone was something she had never experienced with any of her former lovers.  The wealth of emotion conveyed with such magnitude through every touch.  It was something she would never tire of.   "Where is Harm, anyway?"

"Bugger 'f I know or care.  Maybe she took up with a nasty snot demon, or found a deaf vamp.  Knowin' her, she wouldn't notice that he doesn' talk back."  His hand ran down the length of her arm and crossed her abdomen slowly, trailing a feather light touch until her skin shivered under his influence.  "Sorry this place lacks the finer luxuries, luv.  But it was _your _idea to stay here."

"I know.  You see me complaining?"

He grinned wickedly.

"I mean _now, _and about the living conditions?  You have a television, you have blood in the fridge, you have some food, though I think those last two have gone bad by now…" A sly smile broke across her face as her own playful fingers slid down his chest, skimming underneath his shirt and earning a low rumble of encouragement as she explored his skin.  "You have a big comfy bed downstairs, and you have you.  So I'm a happy girl."

Spike sent her a smoldering look that made her toes curl in anticipation.  "How happy?" he demanded huskily.  

"I get the feeling you're about to make me the happiest girl ever."

"You're insight serves you well…" His head dipped once more to her throat, dropping teasing nibbles across her skin as his hand slid beneath the waistband of her pants.  His other hand crept up her side to cup a breast, and she arched masterfully under his attentions, rubbing herself against the hardness of his jeans and earning the same in turn.

"Mmmm…" he murmured approvingly as his fingers discovered her moist tenderness.  "You're magnificent."

Buffy's brow furrowed in concentration.  "Thank you," she managed awkwardly.  "I try."  Before he could summon a response, she grasped him by the neck and brought him back to her, ravaging his mouth with hers.  A low growl of encouragement coursed through him, touching her nerves with almost more power than his hands could entice, and they battled each other with passionate fury that had not known life before this moment.  

It seemed fitting that Wright would choose that moment to interrupt their haven.

"Aha!" he cried triumphantly as the crypt door burst open.  "I _knew _there was a reason to check up on you two.  Didn't I say no hanky panky?"

A start rang through the air with a beat of delayed realization. Spike and Buffy broke apart with difficulty—the response quick but uncomfortable.  After a few fumbling seconds of rearranging clothing and smoothing out ruffled hair, they beamed virtually identical smiles of pure innocence in his direction.  

"Hey, Zangy," the peroxide vampire greeted, pulling his childe over his lap when he couldn't find a throw-pillow convenient.  Not that his humble home had ever been equipped with throw-pillows.  It was a lonely matter of wishful thinking.  "I see you found the place."

The other man shrugged, stretching out his arms.  "What can I say?  Demon hunter."

"Right."

"We were playing Egyptian Ratscrew, and Spike broke the table," Buffy blurted with embarrassment, her face tinting with the slightest hint of pink.  

Wright arched a brow.  

"It's a game!"

"Well, whatever you kids are calling it these days, I distinctly remember telling you that sleep was your priority tonight."

The peroxide vampire rolled his eyes.  "Yes, _mother."_

"It's a _card_ game," the Slayer emphasized.  "Though…yeah.  Why should we listen to you, huh?  That's right.  We're both…adults.  A-and vampires.  Yeah, vampires  And we could…you know…eat you and…stuff."

Zack's eyes went even wider.

"Not that way!"

Spike clamped a hand over Buffy's, shaking his head and chuckling richly.  "Sweetheart, quit while you're ahead."  He turned back to his friend, gesturing to the empty chair that sat adjacent to the television.  "So, they chase you off already?"

That was all it took.  Immediately, the demon hunter dropped his teasing countenance and rolled his eyes, taking the proffered seat.  "I don't know how you put up with it," he said.  "And yes, while I realize that I was on their side not too long ago, I don't think I was ever _that _bad."

"I beg to bloody differ."

Wright gave him a sharp look, but shrugged again all the same with a weary nod.  "Okay, so I was an anti-demon son of a bitch…and I still am, don't get me wrong.  But I do have eyes and common sense—something that seems to be severely lacking with your friends."  He nodded at Buffy.  "No offense."

She opened her mouth to reply but settled with a nod instead.  There was no sense in protesting the truth.

Spike shrugged.  "Harris has always been like that," he said dismissively.  "Funny, though.  We were actually on the road to gettin' along before the full of this happened.  'Course there's every chance that the whole of that experience was a fluke.  Or temporary insanity."  He glanced at Buffy with a weary sigh, smiling as though it didn't matter.  "'S nothin' I din't expect."

"It's not fair," she murmured softly.  

"'S not s'posed to be, luv."  He smiled gently and turned back to Wright.  "Where's the Bit?"

"Left her with Tara.  I'll be by in the morning to pick her up."  He made a face.  "I might be willing to stay here, but I sure as hell am not gonna subject my daughter to it."

"Oh, but you would make her stay in that pit of filth you called a motel in LA?"

"Better than here."

"By your admittedly low standards, I guess."

Zack scowled.  "Buffy, tell your boyfriend to lay off."

"Luv, tell—"

"Oh, give it a rest." She shimmied forward in Spike's lap, not doing much to heal his aching predicament.  Both ignored the low whimper that hissed through his lips.  "Come on.  Let's teach Zack how to play Egyptian Ratscrew."

The demon hunter favored them with a worried look.

"It really _is _a card game."

"I don't even wanna get into the story about how I'm not falling for that again."

There was another still pause.  Sire and childe cast each other virtually identical evil looks.

"Again?" the Slayer demanded coyly.

"Huh uh.  No way."

"Come on, it's fun."

Spike grinned at them, eyes shimmering with amusement.  "As long as no more tables get broken around here, 'm up for it."

Buffy smirked.  "You're also _up _for a few other activities."

He snickered.  "Right." 

"Guys!"

The peroxide vampire turned back to Wright deviously, shaking is head in amusement.  "It _is _a card game, Zangy.  Trust me, I like you, but I don' _like _you.  It goes like this…you shuffle the deck seven times 'cause of some wonky folklore that we bloody well _must _take seriously 'cause this is Sunnyhell an' the slightest deviance from protocol could mean the end of the world.  Then—"

"There's hitting," Buffy explained with a shrug.  "You slap the cards to get them.  Spike can explain the rest, but that's the fun part.  That's also how the table broke. Some people just take the game a little _too _seriously."

"Well, sorry, pet, but you were cheatin'."

"I was not!"

"You were gonna.  You have a bloody awful poker face."

"Well, thank God we're not playing poker!"

Spike rolled his eyes with a grin.  "See what I have to put up with?" he asked Wright insolently.

Zack merely shook his head.  "All right…deal the cards and start from the top.  Any game that ensues a little violence has to be entertaining."

"That's my boy."

The hunter smirked at him but pulled up a seat all the same.  Of all the ways to spend long nights, this was preferable.  Once more before facing the lion den tomorrow.

Such promise was more than any could imagine.  It was just enough.

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-Eight: _All I Need_…**


	49. All I Need

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

**All I Need**

Despite the frequency of occurrence, Buffy wasn't about to lose sight of the irony that ensured a day could start off with blissful laziness and end up all but wreaking of world destruction—and not in the literal fashion.  Today was one such day.  And it wasn't appearing as though it would get any better.

Of course, she hadn't been entertaining the delusion that all would go smoothly with the entire confrontation.  Wright's account of Xander's temperament the day before was evidence enough of their unwillingness to see reason.  However, she had hoped that whatever was said was enough to at least calm the raging sea before she set off in search for dry land.  It wasn't.  And in all honesty, she was likely wasting herself in an effort to not be surprised.

The day had started off so wonderfully, too.  Spike had awakened her with a series of lavish kisses that naturally led to an impromptu shagathon, exploring a touch of fast, slow, gracious, and passionate without changing whim.  After much teasing, she finally explored the makeshift shower he had drilled into his crypt and reveled in the way cold water no longer affected her.  Then they had awakened Wright—who noisily took up the full of the upstairs sofa—and enjoyed several more rounds of Egyptian Ratscrew before he volunteered to pick up blood and doughnuts.  Then he was gone again Revello Drive to collect his child, and everything else was left for waiting.

A continuous exercise in making time standstill.  While Spike offered to employ the sewer system he used to navigate the town during daylight hours, she was grateful for the excuse to stay put.  They watched television, discussed the pros and cons of Spike Lee movies, and began idly arranging imaginary furniture for their future apartment.  

It couldn't last, though.  The sun had inevitably set.  And it was time.  

Now she was sitting in her extremely unchanged living room on the sofa that had seen more drama than any soap opera.  Her hand was entangled with Spike's, their bodies pressed as closely together as possible without moving to fill his lap completely.  The sea of stares their manifest intimacy procured wavered on the side of intimidating.  However, every time she tensed, her sire would squeeze her hand with stanch reassurance, and that was the only reality that kept her from losing herself.  

She didn't know what horrified them more: the closeness between her former enemy or her newfound vampirism.  And she hadn't even sealed the punch line.

"I wondered why I had to invite you inside," Dawn finally murmured, breaking the awkward silence with more awkwardness.  "It was…weird."

Buffy smiled weakly.  "Yeah.  It was."

"So…this is it, huh?" Willow acknowledged, strengthened now that the quietude was severed.  "No tricks.  No candid camera.  You're really…a…you're really a vampire."

Spike squeezed her hand but did not interrupt.

"It's obvious," Anya observed with an indifferent shrug.  "You really didn't notice when she walked in the room?  No human has skin that pale."

"Honey," Xander intervened with gritted teeth.  "She has just spent the last few weeks under an evil law firm."

"Yes, and most likely suffered massive blood loss," the former demon agreed.  "But there is a difference between sunlight-deprived and vampire sunlight-deprived.  Believe me, I've seen it."

From his position in the corner, Wright's eyes widened comically and he glanced to Spike with newfound respect.  "Okay.  She's scary."

"Told you, mate."

The Slayer shrugged as though the matter was of little consequence.  "As far as the vamp thing goes, it's really not as bad as all that," she said lamely, ignoring the voice that screamed its protest within her chest.  There were some truths that still had to be reckoned with.  "I mean…definite transition.  The entire blood thing still wigs me out…but if you pretend it's diet soda, it's better.  And even flavorful."

Xander blinked slowly as though just coming out of a daze.  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, exhaled deeply, and nodded.  "Okay," he began.  "Could you…repeat everything you just said and use very, very small words so I know I'm not having some very bad nightmare?"

Her expression hardened at that, as though the notion in itself was offensive.  "You heard me."

"Yeah.  It's the _hearing _part that has me falling off my seat."

"How did this happen?" Willow demanded, flabbergasted.  "I mean, I know the basics.  The blood swap and everything…but if Angel knew that you would keep your soul, why did he even bother to—"

"He didn't."

The first two words to escape Spike's lips drew the entire room to a horrid standstill.

Wright rolled his eyes and graced his friend with a narrowed glance.  "Great.  You couldn't have eased into that at all?"

The peroxide vampire kept his gaze trained stealthily on Harris as though daring him to do something.  He hadn't even hazarded a glance to Giles yet, for whom he knew the reaction would be the direst.  "What can I say, Zangy?" he replied quietly.  "I like my cards on the table where I can see 'em."

"Wait a minute, I'm confused," Joyce intervened.  Everyone softened at that; the poor woman was still recovering from the revelation that named her eldest child as a vampire.  The notion of something buried even further beneath the surface was not yet within the territory of comprehension.  "Spike…are you saying—"

"I know perfectly well what he is saying," Giles said coolly, gaze unreadable.  "Spike is the one that sired Buffy.  Angelus had nothing to do with it."

Zack arched a brow.  "If I may—"

"I wouldn't call it nothin', Rupes," the vampire replied with an easy shrug, composedly breaking through Wright's objection without tossing him a glance.  The message, though, was perfectly clear.  He would gain no friends by detailing his involvement in Buffy's transformation, and all the more likely, none would believe it.  "When I found her, she was all but dead.  Peaches was given a heads up an' decided to change the rules before Zangy an' I could break her out.  When I saw her, it was let her die or vamp her.  I chose.  So bloody bite me."

Xander's eyes flared and he leapt to his feet with a swift, angry motion that clearly stated Spike would be a pile of dust if looks could kill.  "You expect us to believe that?" he hissed.  "You expect us to believe that we sent William the Bloody after the Slayer and his only thought was how to bring her home, safe and sound?  How many have heard that before, I wonder?  Oh wait.  You can't ask them.  They're dead!"

A shadow crossed Buffy's face.  "That's enough."

Her objection warranted a sharp glare that was more betrayed than actually angry.  "Why are you defending him?"

"Because he saved my life!" she snapped, clutching onto Spike's hand as though releasing her grip would determine a complete loss of self.  "Because he did more for me than anyone else has ever _tried."_

"You know we would've come if we'd had the option, Buff," Willow intervened with a frown.  "But Dawn…and Glory…and your mom.  We were going to come, but Spike showed up and volunteered.  Do you have any idea how hard that decision was…sending someone _you _never trusted to rescue you from his own?  Give us some credit here."

"You did what you had to," the Slayer agreed.  "You really, really did.  If you'd've come after me while Dawn was in danger, I'd've made snack food out of you by now."

A still note settled through the living room.

Spike leaned forward, lips curling in a smile.  "That's a joke, kiddies.  Bloody hell.  She might be a vamp, but she's still dear ole Buff."

"Don't bother trying to tell them anything," Wright snickered, shaking his head.  "I've never seen a more closed-minded group since those Church of Christers in the Midwest…and never went back again, I might add."

The peroxide vampire quirked a brow and favored his friend with a skeptical leer.  "What were you doin' in the Midwest?"

"My job.  Hello."

"For the Church of Wankers?"

He shrugged easily.  "There was a demon, they weren't catholic so they couldn't exorcise him properly.  Good thing, 'cause those type of demons only get pissed when you try to—"

Xander blinked, frowned, and held up a hand.  "Is there any possible way you can not talk about this right now?  If you didn't notice, things of—oh say—importance are being discussed."

The demon hunter gave him a long look before snorting in private humor.  "Bloody," he said without glancing away.  "If you ever decide to fall off the wagon, I won't stake you for killing that one."

"I think the lady might, but the sentiment's appreciated."

"And I'm noticing that the Slayer in the room doesn't come to my defense as her so-called rescuer plots my death," Harris noted with a wry grin.  "Thanks Buff.  Knew I could count on you."

She rolled her eyes.  "Stop.  He wouldn't."

"Oh really?"

Willow placed a hand of warning on Xander's shoulder.  And just like that, she understood.  The observation, of course, did not go unnoticed by Wright, who chuckled briefly and arched his brows at his friend.

"You had your money on the redhead, right?"

Spike shrugged easily.  "Her or Rupes.  But I betcha anythin' it'll be Stay Puft who comes at me with a stake."

Buffy scowled.  "You two bet on this?"

"Had to keep it entertainin' somehow, sweetheart."

Zack nodded appraisingly.  "I'll say this, Buffy.  Your boy's very good at inventing random games to keep himself occupied."

"Your boy?" Xander repeated.  "Okay, will—"

"For God's sake, it's perfectly obvious what he meant," Giles said with a groan.  "Do you really need everything spelled out in large letters, or were you making an untimely joke?"

The other man frowned.  "An untimely joke?"

"They're having sex," Anya said simply.  "Lots of it, from what I can tell.  Buffy has that satisfied look that I get after we have finished copulating, so I'm guessing they have also had sex recently."  

"Thank you, Ahn.  Anything else?"

"It's good sex," she added, unhampered.  "I can tell because Buffy _doesn't_ have that unsatisfied-and-still-horny look that she often had with Riley."  She flashed a winning smile at the snickering couple, completely stabilized by her revelation.  "Congratulations and many happy orgasms."

A long beat rang through the living room.

Spike nodded at her with a smirk.  "Thanks, luv.  We'll get right on that."

Buffy elbowed him but said nothing to the contrary, and her action earned a chuckle from Wright.

"Dawn," Joyce said suddenly.  "Go to your room."

An affronted gasp strangled the air.  "Mom!"

"Go to your room."

"Come on.  I go to a public school.  I've heard the word 'orgasm' before."

This time, her decree was supported by more than half of the house's occupation.  "Go to your room!"

"Ahn," Xander said slowly after the teenager had walked off in a huff—stopping briefly to hug her sister and congratulate her personally on her relationship, which she had always secretly been rooting for.  "You do know that the question was rhetorical, right?"

"Yes.  I decided to answer anyway.  It made things very amusing."

Willow rolled her eyes.  "Oh, come on.  They're _holding hands, _Xan.  You can't tell me you haven't seen that."

"I have selective blindness, thank you."

Wright sighed dramatically.  "Your friends are crazy."

Xander blinked.  "Ummm…she's the one having sex with Spike and _we're _the crazy ones?"

That earned a disgruntled snicker.  "I'm beginning to wish I'd stayed upstairs with Rosie and Tara.  Suddenly, even Disney sounds like a fabulous alternative to this blatant double standard."

"I—"

Zack rolled his eyes.  "Your girlfriend is an ex-demon, for God's sake!  The only thing about her that _isn't _demon is the lack of powers, and yet you attack _my friend _who has done nothing more than get your Slayer back as well as he could.  Oh and by the way, before you mention it, the entire siring thing—"

Spike sat forward suddenly, gaze wide with warning.  "Zangy, don' do anythin' stupid."

"It was my fault, okay?  I'm the one that made her drink."

"Like that," the vampire finished dejectedly.

The room again came to an effective standstill.  Giles took a serious step forward, face grave.  "You…how?"

"Simple, really," the hunter continued, unfazed.  "We found her, Spike ran over to her, she was all dead-like, I slit his throat and made her drink.  It wasn't his fault.  Hell, it wasn't even his _idea.  _He had no control over what was happening until it was too late, and then he fucking chastised me for saving the girl he loves.  So, there you have it.  Chastise away.  What do I fucking care?"

A low groan rang through the Cockney's lips.  "Zangy, you well-intentioned fool."

"I had to tell them.  It was annoying the piss outta me."

Willow pursed her lips and glanced to the Slayer.  "Buffy?"  The blonde nodded.  There was nothing else to do.  The Witch took that in with a grain of salt, then turned her attention back to Wright.  "Why?  Why would you do something like that?"

"'E did it for me, Red," Spike intervened softly, drawing attention back to himself.  "Y'see, a few years ago, Zangy here lost his wife to a particularly nasty vamp.  You might know her…name of Darla."

Dead or not, mention of her brought a short shudder to the hunter's spine.

"Darla," Giles murmured, turning to Zack with newfound understanding.  "There is an incident that the Watcher's Council has yet to document but has always been well aware of.  You did say your name was—"

"Her name was Amber Wright," the man said solemnly.  "And she wasn't the only one.  Darla killed my unborn son, too.  It's the reason I became a demon hunter."  His gaze fixed resolvedly on his friend.  "Losing Amber killed me.  When I saw Spike break down at Buffy's side when we found her, I knew it'd kill him, too.  It went against everything I…but it was worth it.  They're happy."

Willow's eyes went wide.  "You…Spike, you—"

"I love her, she loves me, end of bloody story."

"That's the reason you went in the first place," Joyce said, tears rolling down her face.  "I should've seen it.  I should've…you brought her home.  Oh, how can I ever—"

Her prattling went on in the same manner. It was a typical Mom moment, but it had Buffy's eyes watering all the same.  

"Am I the only person who isn't okay with this?" Xander wondered aloud.

"Yes," Wright snapped.

"No," Giles countered.

Spike rolled his eyes.  "Bloody typical."

The demon hunter snickered incredulously.  "So, let me get this straight…he's good enough to send after your Slayer, but when it comes to—"

Harris glared at him, raising a hand impetuously. "Can we vote him off the island?"

"Hey, I don't have a problem with demon-bashing," Wright snapped.  "All I'm looking for is a little consistency.  You hate demons?  Fine.  Don't make exceptions, and especially, don't _date _them."

"But I want Xander to date me," Anya argued.

Zack's gaze widened and he gestured at her emphatically.  "You see?  She even knows what I'm talking about!"

"Ahn was a demon for a long time.  She isn't anymore."

Spike met his friend's irritated gaze and smiled.  It was useless trying to preach this load of 'heard that's' to a crowd that no longer listened, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same.  "That's right," he added helpfully.  "Our Anya's a good li'l girl now.  Wouldn't harm a fly. Ahn, tell the good people how much atonement you've gone through since you saw the bloody light.  How many tears you've cried over the thousands of men you eviscerated over the centuries.  'm sure Zangy'll understand once he gets a picture of everythin' you've done to make up for your naughty deeds."

"That's not fair," Harris objected.

"You all better remember this," Wright advised.  "Ten years from now when you're asked where you were when democracy failed, you'll wanna give them a straight answer."

"Look," Buffy intervened sharply.  "There's no use fighting—it's not like it's going to change anything.  I know you're all worried about me—"

"Worried."  Giles blinked at her as though she had spawned another head that was singing Cantonese opera.  "Why would you think we're worried?"

Xander crossed his arms bitterly.  "Other than the fact that everyone here is insane."

"Look, this is Buffy's decision," Joyce snapped.  "Spike saved her life—"

"And it looks as though he's earning every penny."

That was it.  The peroxide vampire snarled to life, leaping to his feet as his eyes flashed yellow; he all but bounded across the room, ready to tear Xander's head off.  Buffy and Wright were instantly at his side, each grasping an arm to hold him back though their exercises seemed overly futile.  For the moment, for all the outrage pumping the Cockney's veins, even a sired Slayer and a demon hunter stood not a chance against his strength.

It was immeasurably enough.  Buffy's hand slid to his and her fingers laced with his own.  The intimate contact seemed to draw him back to himself, and while his anger faded, the growl behind his tone remained steadfast.  And the entire room was still.

"Look, you sodding ninny," he snarled.  "Attack me all you bloody want.  Iexpect it from you.  've been sayin' the same to the Slayer an' Zangy since we left LA.  'S jus' you, Harris.  You an' your small-minded unwillingness to accept what you don' want to understand.  An' that's fine.  But 'f you ever, ever make an insinuation about my girl like that again, I'm gonna bloody rip your heart out an' shove it down your throat."

"More over," Zack added coldly.  "I'll help."

A very cold beat settled throughout the room.  Everyone favored Xander with a mixture of horror and appraisal—the signs of a marked man.  Perhaps it was the knowledge of Spike's newfound power, or the comprehension that they had lost Buffy's protection where he was concerned.  The look on her face read more of the same for her offense.  She was hurt, and she had a right to be.

"You hurt Xander, and I'll cut off your penis," Anya threatened.  "Then you and Buffy won't be able to enjoy numerous orgasms."

"Ohhh, you're makin' me quiver in my li'l booties."

"Those issues aside," Giles said neutrally, "we have some other concerns."

"And I think violent outbursts is one," Willow agreed, worry lines wrinkling her brow.  "Honestly, Spike.  We're trying to get the full here, and yeah what Xander said was very, very out of line.  Hell, he bypassed the line by several county marks."

"Thanks, Wills," the man commented with an ironic smile.

Spike growled again and the man quieted.

Wright shook his head heavily and broke for the door.

Buffy frowned.  "Where are you going?"

"I need to kill something," he explained, gaze leveling on Harris. _ "Now."_

The slam of the door enunciated his leave effectively.  Xander tossed the Slayer a wry, insincere smile.  "Gee, Buff.  I sure am loving all your friends."

"You provoked him, Xan."

"An' Zangy's not the type of bloke you wanna provoke," Spike observed wearily, allowing the Slayer to draw him back to the sofa, even if he refused to sit.  He would never fault Wright for leaving, but his absence did resonate a sort of furthering of the already uneven odds throughout the room.  All things considered, he preferred standing.  "But he's a man who stands by his convictions an' doesn' shy to admit when 'e's wrong."

"Regardless of his nobility," Giles began evenly.  "He distracts us from the point.  Spike…while I am sure—no, not even at that—you should have clarified your motive before you left.  Had we known—"

"You wouldn't have let me within fifty feet of the Slayer."

"Damn right," Xander mumbled.

"An' she'd be all sorts of dead.  Do you wankers have any bloody idea what it took for me to get as close as I did?  Angelus barely trusted me to be in the city.  'E wouldn't have trusted _any _of you—"

"I am not saying that," Giles corrected.

"Yeh, well your spokesman is."

"Maybe it would be better if we talked to Buffy alone about this," Willow suggested helpfully.

Anya shrugged.  "That's Laymen's terms for 'we want you gone so you're not influencing her'."

"You're not getting anywhere with me," the Slayer said calmly.  

"Then you won't mind our trying."

She rolled her eyes.  "I swear.  And I thought you'd be more upset about the dead thing."

"Call it all of the above," Giles reasoned evenly.  "We need to speak with you."

"Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of—"

The platinum vampire abruptly released her hand and walked out of the living room.  The Slayer's words choked her throat and her eyes went wide, the bottom of her stomach dropping as her eyes followed him—her legs granite.  While his strength was some of the most potent that she depended on, his presence was nothing without his support.  And when she opened her mouth to call after him, she berated herself for how unstable she sounded.

"…Spike?"

He turned then, caught her expression, and smiled with gentle reassurance.  "Jus' thought I'd give you an' your mates a minute," he explained.

"You don't have to—"

"Nah.  'S all right.  Think the Bit's sneakin' down, anyway."

Buffy watched, well aware that everyone in the room was watching with her.  Sure enough, Rosie appeared in mere seconds, wide-awake and grinning when she saw him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.  They listened as the child explained Dawn and Tara had engaged in a heated argument about who was better: Bagheera or Baloo, and fallen asleep just seconds after the discussion ended.  The movie was still playing, she said, but she wanted to see her father or Spike or someone and not watch television anymore.  

"Your Pap went out for a nightcap," the platinum vampire told her, smiling kindly.  "Come on.  You hungry?"

"Daddy doesn't let me eat after nine o'clock."

His eyes widened mischievously and he neared her with a grin that spoke of all kinds of mischief.  "Daddy doesn' have to know." 

The Slayer watched the whole of the brief exchange and it warmed her heart.  Though he would protest until he went hoarse, Spike was surprisingly good with children.  He knew how to make Rosie smile, which was something not many outside her admitted circle could claim.  He knew how to exercise patience that seemingly came from nowhere.  He was smitten with her girlish charm, such to the point that she wouldn't be surprised if he volunteered to be her godfather.

The girl was more than his link to the Powers.  She was the daughter of his best male friend.  And he treated her like family.

No sooner had the pair disappeared through the dining room and into the kitchen did the Scoobies reinstate their campaign; everyone but her mother voicing a thousand different reasons why what she was doing was a bad idea.  All things that she had already had time to take to committee, review, and retire.  After all that had occurred, none of that mattered anymore.  All that mattered was the road ahead.

This was what he wanted, he said.  This was what he was willing to live if she willed it so.

"Buffy," Giles was saying reasonably.  "I understand your feelings of obligation.  We all owe Spike a tremendous debt.  But sires have strong holds on those they create.  Exceptionally strong.  What you're feeling…"

"Let's not forget the fact that _he _sired you," Xander added.  "As in, made you dead."

"I was already dead," Buffy replied, gaze focused on the vacant dining room.  "I was dead long before Angel killed me.  Spike came and he was there, and he asked for nothing in return."  She turned slowly to her family and offered a watery smile.  "I love you guys.  I do.  And I know this is hard.  I can barely understand it myself.  But what I feel…it's the real thing."

"How can you know?" Willow asked softly.  "I mean, if it is, go you.  But the last time you did the vampire thing, it ended bad."

"Very bad," Giles agreed.

"So bad that he decided to kidnap you two years after he dumped you bad," Xander finished.

Buffy glanced to her mother for the last, but all she had to offer was a neutral shrug. "We just don't want to see you hurt.  And…" Her gaze drifted to the dining room as well, a clandestine motherly smile crossing her face.  "I think, after all we've seen, that we know he will not hurt you."

Her words had barely had time to die before Giles was speaking again.  Only the tenor altered drastically, and the look behind his eyes was haunted and still.  The revelation itself was random, as though brought upon himself by shades of guilt. "I am so sorry," he said.  "For everything."

"You didn't—"

"We never prepared for the option of your turning, Buffy.  You experienced vampirism briefly the first year that we met, but we never discussed it afterward."

She shrugged halfheartedly, forcing a smile to her lips.  "It's really not as bad as I would've thought.  I don't love it, but—"

"What happened wasn't your fault.  You know that, right?"

She frowned.  "Of course.  And it wasn't Spike's, either.  With what I saw, Giles, I wouldn't have let him this close if he wasn't the real thing.  And I'm sorry to disappoint you—"

"You don't," he admonished instantly, eyes wide.

"We're just surprised," Willow added.  "On all sorts of levels."

There was a still beat before Xander stepped up to the plate.  "There's so much we don't get," he said, obviously making an effort to remain logical.  "Think about it: the last time we saw you, you were…well, alive for one thing…and had the basic temperament of 'Oh-I-Hate-Spike-Let-Me-Count-The-Ways-How-Long-Till-I-Can-Shove-Something-Nice-And-Wooden-Not-To-Mention-Pointy-Through-His-Chest.'"

The redhead nodded.  "Maybe if we had seen it—"

"You'd be singing a whole different tune," Buffy reassured him.  "I know you don't get it. Really, when we came here, it was big with the not-expecting-you-to.  But you guys _know_ me.  You know me very well.  And we were wrong…we were wrong about him.  I don't know why he changed, but he did.  He's completely different from the guy we thought we knew."  She turned to the empty dining room again, eyes shining with something unmistakable.  Something she would have an eternity to enjoy. "He's one of us."

*~*~*

"Whatcha makin'?"

"Hot chocolate."

"What are those?"

"Li'l marshmallows."

"What are they for?"

"The hot chocolate."

"Why?"

"'Cause you can't have hot chocolate without the li'l marshmallows."

"Why?"

"'S the law."

"Says who?"

"Says the Hot Chocolate Police."

Amazing how one could go from being one of the most feared and respected vampires throughout history and end up in a Slayer's kitchen engaged in idle conversation with a nine-year old.  The same hands that had ripped through human flesh without a flinch were tentatively stirring a sugary concoction for a girl he shouldn't care two licks about.  It was an unusual convergence from shades of realization.  He remembered well his self-loathing for the manifest concern displayed in the alley the night they met.  How he had felt himself overcome with anxiety in the namesake of a little girl he didn't know, and likely would never see again.

It wasn't enough that Buffy had made him fall in love with her.  She had also made him a bloody humanitarian.  The Spike of Old would never entertain the whims of a child.  He would just as sooner rip her lungs out.

Now the thought of anyone trying to enact the Spike of Old made him see red.

Anyone who harmed Rosalie Wright had to answer to him, and he wouldn't make it pretty.  He would make them scream until their shrills were hit with a hoarse brogue.  

That was it, then.  It was official.

He was bloody tamed.  

"I think you're lying about the Hot Chocolate Police," the child observed as he slid a mug-full of warm, chocolaty goodness down the counter.  

"Yeh?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I think you ask too many bloody questions."  Spike's brows quirked in jest, a smile tickling his lips.  "Whaddya say to that?"

Rosie studied him for a long minute before her eyes sparkled, rising admirably to the challenge.  "I say…" she mused thoughtfully.  "Why is the sky blue?"

"'Cause God was colorblind.  Anythin' else?"

She giggled sharply and took an appreciative sip of her drink.  "You're funny, Uncle Spike."

"'m a bloody comedian."

"You don't look bloody."

He smiled a thin smile, patting her head with affection he was almost unaware of.  "Trust me, Bit."

She looked at him for another tentative moment, indulging another drink.  It was adorable watching her grasp the cup; though she was old enough to keep hold of it with only one hand, she employed both, betraying the impression of a much younger child.  "Why do you call me that?" she asked finally.

"What.  Bit?"

"Yeah."

"Well…look at you."  Spike flashed a condescending grin.  "You're a tiny person."

"I'm not tiny."

"Well, you won' be for long."

"I hunt demons."

Yes, he knew that much.  Unbloodybelievable.

"Your Pap sure knows how to set a good example, doesn' he?"

"Where is he?"

"Your dad?"  Spike nodded at the back door, taking a long drink of his own mug.  "'E got a li'l brassed with Buffy's mates an' decided 'e needed to go stick it to somethin' good.  An' since Cordy wasn' around, he settled with the demon population instead."

Rosie frowned.  "Why would Daddy stick it to Cordy?"

Though he had practically gift-wrapped it and shipped it to himself, there was absolutely no way that listening to such an innocent tenor vocalize an inherently naughty question could result in anything other than a mixture of a choking/laughing fit.  He had to spit a mouthful of hot-chocolate back into his cup before mirth overwhelmed him completely.  When girl moved to considerately pat his back, he all but lost it again.

"Jus' forget I said that," he advised once he regained control of himself.

"I'm gonna ask him when he gets back."

Spike's eyes widened.  "You incorrigible shedevil."

Rosie merely shrugged and took another sip of her hot chocolate, basking in the limelight of feigned innocence.  She was a smart kid—she knew there were things out there that she wasn't supposed to know.  It was her fortune that her innate sweetness outbid whatever ulterior motives her conniving nine-year old mind could imagine.  

"Why did you leave the others?" she asked a minute later.

There was a difficult question.  It wasn't as though he hadn't known the Scoobies would be this way, but a secret part of him had been hoping for a little break.  

They were more upset about their relationship than her vampirism.  How's that for family?

"To give 'em some time alone."

"With Aunt Buffy?"

The moniker made his lips twitch in a shadow of a grin.  "Yeh," he replied.  "With Aunt Buffy.  Y'see, Aunt Buffy's friends don' particularly like me."

The child look genuinely affronted at the notion.  "Why?"

"'Cause I'm a bad man, Bit.  Never forget it."

"You're not bad, Uncle Spike."

The sad part was, she actually believed what she said.  Deceiving such an intelligent girl made his insides coil in disgust.

"'ve done a lot of bad things."

"I once stole a pack of gum from Price Cutter."

He smiled again with droll amusement.  "Naughty girl."

"Nikki made me give it back."

"I wouldn't've."  The peroxide vampire shrugged and leaned back.  "'F you were crafty enough to get it out of there without gettin' caught, I say good on you.  You've done more than earn the seventy-nine cents they mark it for on the shelf."  He sighed heavily and propped himself fully onto the counter, reaching for his cigarettes.  "'ve stolen a lot in my time.  Never gave a penny back.  An' I've done worse.  Much worse.  Trust me, Bit.  Your Uncle Spike's not a nice guy."

A sad, unadulterated look overwhelmed her at that.  "You're nice to me," she said quietly.  "And to Aunt Buffy.  And to Daddy.  I've never seen you be mean to anyone good."

"You haven't known me all that long."

"I've known you."  

Odd how such a small package could make him quiver so.  There was true conviction in her words.  As though she believed it.  As though it was true.  And then—perhaps it was.  She was his guide, after all.  The Powers had sent her to him to serve as his link.  When Buffy was killed, it was she—not Cordelia—who provided the vision.  She had been the one to first convey the Slayer's love for him.  The first he allowed close when everything was falling to hell.  A child who knew him.

Amazing.

"You might've been bad, but you're good now."

"Watch it.  I resent that."

Rosie smiled.  "No you don't."

They traded a long glance and ages past between them.  Then Spike grew uncomfortable with the serious introspection and furrowed in an attempt to navigate the spotlight away from himself and his numerous instabilities.  Instead, he nodded to the upper level and puffed furiously on his cigarette, relying on the strain of nicotine in ways he had never before exercised.  "So Nibblet an' Glinda fell asleep arguin' 'bout _The Jungle Book?"_

A giggle ruptured her lips at that.  "Yeah."

"Y'know, I've seen _The Jungle Book_.  Several thousand times."

She nodded.  "Dad says you've seen every movie ever."

"'E exaggerates.  There are some musicals I'll never watch."  At her skeptical gaze, he sighed and conceded.  "Okay, more than twice.  Before I met your Aunt Buffy, I had a sick woman who I took care of.  She bloody loved everythin' musical—cartoons were some of her favorite.  The colors an' what all.  Distractin'.  Prob'ly the same shade she was used to seein' in whatever world she lived in."

"Drusilla," Rosie acknowledged.

Spike favored her with a sharp glance.  Then grinned.  "You know too much."

"Daddy tells me everything he can.  When we talked about you after you two became friends, he told me everything there was to know."  She shrugged as though it was the most natural thing in the world.  "I know about Dru.  And Darla.  Darla killed my mother."

"Darla was a nasty bint," he agreed.  "Your Dad sure let her have it."

"Good."

It was disconcerting hearing such cold ruthlessness from a child's mouth.  Of course, a fair percentage of what Rosie said was disconcerting, so he didn't allow it to bother him.

"You know any songs from _The Jungle Book?"_

Sadly, yes.  "A few."

"Sing them for me?"

"An' that's a no."

She pouted.  "Why not?"

"'Cause I got dignity.  An' pride.  An'…sod it.  Knowin' you, you already know that's a bunch of bollix."  He winked at her and inhaled deeply. "'When you pick a pawpaw, or a prickly pear, an' you prick a raw paw; next time, beware.'"

A wide grin that somehow made it worthwhile had infectiously spread across Rosie's face, and she suffered no ill pride in joining him.  "'Don't pick the prickly pear by paw—"

"—'when you pick a pear, try to use the claw,'" he continued.  "'But you don' need to use the claw when you pick a pear of the big pawpaw.'"  An inane chuckle rose to his throat.  "Dru used to bloody love that."

"You miss her?"

"Dru?  No."  And it was true.  He delighted in the tenfold of that understanding.  For everything she had been to him, what he felt for Drusilla had long bitten the dust.  "I love your Aunt Buffy more than anythin' in this world, Bit.  More than I thought I could.  More than before I left to find her. I don' deserve her, but she picked me.  I'm jus' a random lucky bloke."  Spike's eyes narrowed teasingly.  "Kinda like your Pap.  'E doesn' deserve Cordy, but he's got her anyway."

"You shouldn't say that," she observed.

"Yeh, well, whaddya gonna do?"

"Daddy's coming back."

The peroxide vampire drew to an impossible standstill and stared at her blankly.  And the scent hit him two seconds before Wright threw the back door open, storming inward in a foul bit of temper.  From the lack of goo or dust on his attire, it wasn't difficult to observe that his hunting attempts had gone awry.

"Wouldn't you figure," he grumbled.  "A fucking Hellmouth and not one fucking vamp to…" He glanced up two seconds too late, catching the bemused look on his daughter's face.  "Heya, Rosie Posy.  And…what are you doing out of bed?"

She merely grinned.  "Hi, Daddy."

"What?  Bedtime?" Spike turned to calculate the time based on the microwave clock, but it was flashing midnight like a perpetual VCR.  "'m guessin' 's nowhere near one in the mornin'.  Isn't that her normal bedtime?"

"Not anymore it isn't.  She's gonna have school and stuff."  His eyes centered on his daughter.  "Remember school?  You gotta get up real early for that so Nikki can take you."

The platinum vampire barked a laugh of interest.  Typical.

Rosie nodded, evidently unbothered and sipped once more at her hot chocolate.  "Spike knows Disney."

A hoarse, fiercely defensive cough reached his lips the next second, coinciding wonderfully with the sound of Wright's condescending chuckles.  "No I bloody don't!" he protested fanatically.

"He sang a part of 'Bear Necessities.'"

"I bloody well did—"

The demon hunter was laughing richly, foul temperament completely pushed asunder.  "I tell you," he sneered.  "No more making fun of the Barbies.  We're even."

Rosie cocked her head thoughtfully.  "He sang better than you do when you do 'Under The Sea.'"

That was it.  In one beat from sharp justification to laughing so hard he was grateful he wasn't standing.  The furious scowl depressing Wright's features sweetened the deal all the more. "Kids," he said, nodding appraisingly at the girl.  "Gotta love 'em.  An' no, Zangy.  We're not even.  Come on.  At least mine wasn' from a poofy cartoon."

Zack glared at him.  "Two words.  Egyptian Ratscrew."

Spike paused and his eyes went wide, countenance sobering immediately.  "Right.  Right.  We're even."  He hopped down from the counter and stamped out his cigarette self-consciously.

They were still for a discomfiting moment—discomfiting for unknowing why it was discomfiting.  An impasse that no one was ever to know about.  Tacit in understanding and never referred to again.

"Uhhh…" Spike began self-consciously.  "Back into the main hold?"

"Sounds good."

"Gonna put the Bit down firs'?"

"Even better."

The demon hunter hurried to scoop his daughter in his arms and turn back upstairs to see her properly to sleep, leaving the Cockney alone once more with his thoughts.  It was strange how quickly people became relevant in his life.  For over a century, he had crossed through countries, met a thousand or more wandering souls and killed his fair share without thinking twice. Zack and his girl were important to him, and soon they would be returning to Los Angeles.  Soon, the life he had grown accustomed to over the past few weeks would be gone for good.

Those whose company he now enjoyed would sooner see him cast into a pit of fire than ever call him _friend_.  

And yet, this was how it was.  Though giving up acceptance for the woman he loved could well end up being the hardest thing he would ever do, it was worth it.  It was more than worth it.  His love for Buffy surpassed any form of happiness he could have found in Los Angeles without her.  It was foolish to contemplate the woes of what could have been. 

After all, this world wasn't meant for having it both ways. 

**To be continued in Chapter Forty-Nine: _Here We Found Plutus, The Great Enemy…_**


	50. Here We Found Plutus, The Great Enemy

Chapter Forty-Nine 

**Here We Found Plutus, The Great Enemy**

There was a feeling of resonating trepidation in the air even before Wright's cell phone released its high unnerving shrill into the still of the encompassing silence.  He tossed a cautious glance to Spike, who had a sleeping Slayer cradled in his arms; her body curled into his side on the sofa as the last of _Casablanca _ran its course.  They exchanged a brief but meaningful glance, and the peroxide vampire nodded to the entry hall so she would not awake.

After the excitement had died down the day before, it had taken a long time for Buffy's nerves to give her a break and allow an escape for even a catnap, much less an undisturbed night of rest.  Never before had he seen her so overwrought—when she did fall asleep, she wasn't able to remain comfortable enough for anything productive to come of it.  Spike had held her, massaged her tensed body with calming hands, and even tried to lull her with the soothing notes of his lyrical voice.  He made it through Berlin's _Count Your Blessings_ and the opening of _Halleluiah_ before she nodded off, only to awake an hour later with a tremulous gasp that seized his heart.

Silly him.  He had gone the sensual route when all it took was the opening credits of a classic Bogie film to do the trick.  She had been sleeping soundly throughout the full of it, and if he had a say, she wouldn't awake until it was time to get something to eat.

In the crypt, and even at the Hyperion, the inconvenience of telephones had never occurred to him.  He had never had any use for them—while at the hotel, he was usually far and away when Angel Investigations lit up with any meaningful leads.  Thus, the sound of Wright's phone going off was the most unprecedented interruption he could have counted on.  

Zack rose apologetically and quickly scurried to the entry, flipping the phone on and speaking in a fast, whispered hush.  "Yo?"

The Cockney's lips quirked.  The man had been spending too much time with Gunn.

The next note to escape his friend's lips was deadpan, completely void of jollity.  And similarly, on the same accord, his cautionary tactic in maintaining the Slayer's rest abandoned him.  "Okay man, slow down and start from the beginning.  Right…right… What?  _What?  _You're shitting me.  You're fucking shitting me.  Goddammit, when did this happen?"  There was a meaningful pause, and his tone dropped even lower. "What?  And it took _this _long to call me?  Fuck that, do I sound like I care that it was…a fucking half hour, Wes!  I could've been on my…no, from now on, something like this happens, I'm your first fucking phone call.  I'm your first _anything.  _You got it?  No.  I'm coming home.  Well, hold the fuck off until I get there. No, if she's in danger, I…" Wright drew in a deep breath and caressed his brow, breaking into a heavy pace without realizing it.  "Well, _find _one.  Find one _now _and have it ready.  I'm coming home."

By the time the call concluded, moving out of the room had been proven a fruitless activity.  Buffy was awake—groggy and strangely alert at the same time—and reclined against Spike's chest.  She studied the hunter carefully, features depressing in concern.  

There hadn't been one sentence of that trade that anyone had liked.  

"Zangy," the peroxide vampire greeted darkly, not bothering to hide his annoyance.  "Anyone ever tell you that you swear like a sailor when you're brassed?  An' _loudly?"_

Wright nodded, eyes absent.  "Sorry."  He turned to the Slayer.  "I'm really sorry."

She waved dismissively.  "Don't pay attention to him.  I'm fine.  What's wrong?"

A sigh rolled off his shoulders, and just like that, his reality crashed and sent trembles down his body in unsteady affect.  "It's Cordy."

Spike sat up sharply, arm tightening around Buffy's middle and pulling her with him.  The sudden tension in his muscles spoke for every ounce of worry, but could not compare to the hurried emotion in his voice.  "What happened?"

Zack ran a hand through his chestnut strands, his trembles coming harder.  "You know that girl in her vision?  The one we were pretending to chase across town when we were just trying to keep busy?  Yeah.  Apparently, she got sucked into Lorne's alma mater about five years ago."

"Five years ago?" Buffy repeated, confused. 

"Yeah.  It threw them…up until one of Lorne's cousins punched through with some creature he was hunting.  Trashed Caritas, by the way.  Anyway, they tracked it, killed it, sent Lorne's cousin back…and Cordy, in the process."  The tremors wracking his body became more pronounced.  As though saying it aloud made it all the more final.  "She's gone."

There was a long pause.  Then Spike exploded.

"What?  She's gone?  They're jus' gonna sit back an'—"

"No.  Fuck no.  I wouldn't let that."

"Better bloody believe it."  The peroxide vampire rose to his feet.  "Well, tha's it.  We gotta go back."

"No.  _I'm_ going back.  You're staying here."  Wright nodded to Buffy.  "You got other things to worry about.  Besides, I need someone to watch Rosie for me."

"Glinda'll do it."

"She'll want you."

A growl climbed up Spike's throat and his eyes darkened.  "Are you meanin' to tell me you jus' expect me to wait here while my friend's out lost God knows where?  Bugger that.  Otherworldly dimensions aren't fun, kiddies.  You'll need—"

"You're.  Needed.  Here.  You have yours to protect."  

"The only thing I got here that matters to me 's Buffy, an' she'll come."  He turned to her, gaze suddenly wide and imploring.  "You _will _come, right?"

There was no questioning that. "I want to help," the Slayer agreed.  "Cordelia did so much for us."

Wright's eyes widened.  "God, you're both insane!  You have a hellgod to fight here.  Didn't either of you listen to Giles last night?"  He turned heatedly to the peroxide vampire.  "Look, I appreciate it.  I do, and she does, too.  But we've got Wes, Charlie, Nikki, and your bestest friend of all joining the hunting crew.  Hell, Wes is even talking about recruiting that pansy-ass lawyer if he isn't too busy.  We have a big party going; we'll find her."

Spike arched a flawless brow.  "How?"

"By—oh, I don't know—looking.  The hot spot the demon used to punch through has gone cold. They better have found another by the time I get back or there'll be hell to pay."  The hunter exhaled deeply and attempted to regain control of himself.  He was still shaking from head to toe.  "I appreciate it…your offer, that is.  But I can't accept.  You have too much to lose here."  

The meaningful gaze he sent Buffy was all the clarification he needed.  And slowly, Spike's furious glow faded, and he returned to himself.  

There was no way he was going to put his girl in further danger.  Not when he had drawn her from one hell into another.  And Zack was right—they had enough trouble here.  They had Glory.  Adding another trip to Los Angeles, not to mention a time warp to whatever-dimension, would not help anyone.  And he loved her too much to take any chances.

Even for Cordelia.

"Right," Spike said finally.  "You're right."

"I know."  He released another long breath.  "I'm leaving now.  I can't wait."

"Don'.  Jus' get her back."

"Trust me; I'm not gonna lose Cordy.  I can't."  He shook his head, reliving old memories that bore new faces.  It was disconcerting but revealing in all the same breath.  He knew where he stood now. "I think that'd kill me."  

That was sentiment that Spike knew like a brother.  An understanding smile crept over his face, and his eyes turned without thought to study the woman he had sold himself to find, knowing that her downfall would finalize his destruction, even if it were at his own hands.  "Yeh," he agreed hoarsely.  "I know what you mean."

Wright was already at the door, jingling his keys.  "Tell Rosie where I went, and that I'm sorry.  I just can't wait."  He paused then, hand on the doorknob, and turned back to them with large eyes and sharply drawn bated breath.  "Watch out for her with your lives…or unlives…whatever.  I don't need to tell you what'll happen if anything—"

The platinum vampire held up a hand. "Trust me, mate.  I won' let anythin' happen to the Bit.  Ever."

"Neither of us will," Buffy added with a soft smile.  "We love that little girl."

Zack nodded, a ghost of a grin shadowing his face.  "Me, too.  Make sure you tell her that."

That was it.  Just like that, he was gone.  A man on the move.  He had done this scene way too often.  Gotten a call and moved out less than five minutes later.  It was normal for him.  No clothes but what he had on his back.  Even the weapons he deemed worthy enough to bring to Sunnydale were left behind; not even referred to.  He hadn't a moment to waste.

It took a few minutes to regroup and realize exactly what had just transpired.  After calming a sea of raging nerves with tacit cooperation, the couple collapsed wearily onto the sofa again, curled in each other with encircling comfort.  

"Wow," Buffy murmured.  "That happened fast."

Spike nodded.  "Yeh.  But he'll get to her in time.  He bloody well has to."

"He will.  Did you see him moving?  He was out of here like…something really fast that isn't a sordid cliché."

"Not fast enough.  'F it were you, I wouldn't've waited to explain."  

She smiled, nuzzling his chest in a manner that was almost kittenish.  "It was me, Spike," she reminded him softly.  "And you came for me."

"Not like that.  I ran it by your mates firs' to make sure they din't do anythin' stupid."  A sigh coursed through the platinum vampire, and he rested his cheek upon the crown of her head, hands massaging artless patterns of comfort into her back.  "Heaven forbid anythin' like that ever happens to you again, I wouldn't stop for anythin' in the world."

"You're sweet."

"I'm honest."

"You're sweetly honest."

Spike rolled his eyes, unable to shade the worry that lingered there.  "I mean it, luv.  Things've changed.  Before when I left, it was different.  I loved you, 'course, but I din't know why."

"And now you do?"

"Oh yes.  Difference bein', I was in love _at_ you, not _with_ you."  A gentle smile kissed his lips.  "That's changed, too.  Never thought I could get it this good. Now everythin's next to perfect, an' I'm so bloody afraid somethin' like this Glory's gonna take it away."  A sigh ran through him.  "Like Zangy.  Zangy an' Cordy got it next to perfect, too, an' now she—"

"They'll get her back."

"I know.  'F he feels a fraction for her what I feel for you, they'll have her back an' then some."

"He feels fractions.  Many, many fractions."

"Does he?"

Buffy shrugged.  "I can tell.  It's a girl thing."

A wicked grin crossed Spike's face, and a naughty hand dipped between her thighs.  "I like your girl things."

"Well, they like you back."

"Glad to hear it."  His fingers grew even more boisterous, pressing against her intimately as he inhaled her scent and enjoyed the feel of dampened denim against his skin.  Her appreciative sigh sent ripples through his body, and he buried his mouth in her throat to tease her flesh with awe and perseverance.  "You're here," he murmured.  "You're actually here."

A watery smile crossed her face.  "I'm here."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

"Why?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed.  "You're beginning to sound like Rosie.  Which reminds me…you do know that when Zack left us in charge of his daughter, that sort've made us honorary parents."

"'F I was beginnin' to sound like the Bit, I'd ask why fish lived in water."

"I notice you heard that but not the parent thing."

A sigh spilled from his lips.  "I don' know why Zangy figures she'll be any safer with us, 'specially with a hellgod runnin around."

She shrugged.  "Because he trusts you.  And this is a controlled environment." 

Spike arched a brow.

"Well, _more _controlled than a dimension he's never been to.  At least he has an idea of what to expect here."  Buffy exhaled needlessly and arched up to rest her head against his shoulder.  "She's not safe anywhere, though.  I have a battle ahead of me that I'm not ready to fight with demons and vamps and gods running around, and her father's run off to save his girlfriend."

"We'll take care of her, luv.  I won' let anythin' happen to that li'l girl."

"I know you won't."  She sighed against him once more.  "There's just too much right now.  I can't feel it anymore."

A worried frown creased his brow.  "What, baby?"

"I can't…feel. Last night after…when Giles was talking about Glory after we got everything else…he was talking about stuff that we need to do. Prepare for.  All I could think about was how I don't wanna do this anymore."  She shook her head heatedly.  "I've worn the Miss Slayer crown for six years, Spike, and I want to hand it over.  I've died twice, stopped god-knows-how-many apocalypses, and I'm sorry if the word _apocalypse _doesn't faze me anymore.  I guess I grew skeptical the third time Giles told me the world was about to end."  A break then.  Buffy tore her eyes away from his and focused on a spot on the floor, her vision growing blurry.  "Six years and the only thing I've done is get older and dead.  I'm tired of trying to save the world, and the last thing anyone needs right now is an apathetic Slayer.  I just don't care anymore.  I want someone else to…someone else to start caring and start fighting so I can finally start _living.  _It's not fair for me to sacrifice my life so other people can have theirs.  Not one part of this deal is fair to me, or to anyone else called to take the plate."

There was a long, heavy pause as he studied her.  It took a minute before she could reestablish eye contact.  Before she could bring herself to look at someone after she admitted her own inadequacies, as though the want of living was a treacherous faux pas.  Instead, what she found was a small, albeit sincere smile of reassurance and faith.  Whatever it took, she had his support.

Such unburdened knowledge was a rarity she took for granted.

"Hey, luv," he murmured soothingly.  "Preachin' to the bloody choir, here.  You don' need to convince me of anythin'."

She shook her head.  "I just feel so…there's nothing I can do, Spike.  I'm caught in the middle."

"Bollocks."

"Well—"

"Well nothin'.  You're not caught in the bloody middle. That's bollocks. Not 'f you get off your arse an' do somethin' about it.  You don' wanna do this?  Fine.  'S not like you're the active Slayer, anyway.  Baby, you've died twice.  Twice.  I honestly don' see why you din't hand over the title the firs' time a new bird came to town."  Spike shook his head.  "I remember thinkin' the same thing when you firs' introduced us, too.  Thinkin' that it was a bloody fool thing to keep on tryin' when you din't have to, 'specially since all Slayers end up prematurely dead."

"You thought that?  In the chapel?"  She arched a brow.  "When you were going to kill Angel to restore Drusilla?"

"Y'know, everythin' except the 'restoring Dru' part makes me sound like an all right guy, given what's happened between then an' now."  The remark earned a thwap to guise her wry grin, but he didn't mind.  It had been there, and he had seen it.  "An' even then, at full power, Dru's nowhere nearly as nasty as Angelus.  She's a bit loony an' unpredictable, but—"

"Spike?"

He nodded obligingly.  "Point?"

She shrugged in turn.  "It would be nice.  And without the mention of ex girlfriends, if I might…command."

The platinum vampire smiled and leaned forward to kiss her forehead.  "I jus' love seein' you wear green, luv.  Think it might be my favorite color."

"Your favorite colors are red and black and you damn well know it."

"You know me so well."

"SPIKE!"

"Right."  A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.  Teasing her was a delight he would never forfeit, and she always stepped up to plate admirably, ready to hit every curve he threw her way.  "I remember wonderin' why you din't quit, other than the need for a spot of violence, which you could've gotten anywhere.  The job's known for its perks an' its less than desirable attributes throughout the demon world, pet.  You din't quit then because you couldn't.  Because that was all you knew, an' at the time, all you had a chance of knowin'.  I respected you for that.  Not many people could be offered a free ticket out of somethin' like that an' not take it.  But you've done your time.  'S gonna end up destroyin' you 'f you keep to it like you were before…before all this happened."  A wry grin settled on his lips.  "The irony, 'course, 's that you can't not do good, Buffy.  You're a beacon of pure light, an' when you see others wanderin' in the dark, you wanna help them.  You wanna share what you got.  An' you do—you share an' share without realizin' they're not givin' back to you.  Without realizin' you're inches away from your light goin' out.  I don' want that to happen. I don' want who you are to kill your spirit.  You're so much better than the rest of this bloody awful world, an' you deserve to take somethin' back out of what it's taken from you."

A still beat settled between them, heavy and personal.  Spike sat up carefully, navigating her off his lap to add a degree of neutrality free of distraction, even if it was a forethought too late.  "Bottom line, sweetheart," he continued.  "I don' want you to do this, either.  I've been there—I've seen what kinda uglies go after Slayers, an' you can handle yourself with the best.  You've done it, Buffy.  You've done more than anyone could've ever asked of you, an' since I've known you, I've seen you do nothin' but suffer for it.  I want you safe an' with me, 'cause I'm a selfish bastard like that.  'S over now.  Let someone else worry about savin' the world.  'S time for you to cash in an' go to Disney Land.  Whaddya say?"

The temptation in her eyes was impossible to conceal.  There alongside her sense of honor and duty—the same he wanted to eradicate, especially when Sunnydale was so wholly unworthy of her.  Since her involvement in the supernatural happenings that occurred on and under its surface, she had gained nothing but age, heartache, and bitterness.  Forever was in their grasp now.  He wanted to make the most of it.  He wanted to give her what no one else had.  A life.  

Buffy finally glanced up, wrought with confused indecision.  "And leave the Hellmouth unguarded?"

Spike's brows arched appraisingly.  "An' I s'pose the world ended several times that 'm not aware of before you an' yours arrived to make it impossible?  Luv, the Hellmouth survived here for centuries before you showed up.  Before _any _Slayer showed up.  'Sides, 's not the only one.  I happen to know the Hellmouth in Cleveland 's jus' as dangerous, an' even more active an' very unguarded."  He waited passively while she chewed on that one.  "You're jus' one person.  One amazin' person, yeh, but you can hardly be everywhere at the same time.  There's more danger out there than what we're sittin' on right now.  An' we're still here."

A wry snort rolled off her shoulders.  "How encouraging."

"I try."  He waited for a long minute and released a deep, pensive sigh.  "All that, an' the world still hasn't ended."

"But what if—"

"It does?"

She nodded.

He shrugged.  "Hasn't yet.  An' as we saw in LA, there are others keepin' check.  You're not alone."

"You're talking about—"

"You know what I'm talkin' about.  They're good at what they do, an' they have Evil Incorporated sittin' jus' a few blocks away.  My guess is, the apocalypse…the next an' twenty after that, not to mention the one's that's actually _apocalyptic_ will have somethin' to do with Wolfram an' Hart."  A dry smile tickled his mouth.  "Chances are, the ones you've faced so far?  All a part of their game plan."

Buffy stared at him for a long minute.  "How's that possible?"

"Wolfram an' Hart's been around forever, luv," he explained.  "They're the original evil—shape shifters that mold every now an' then to keep up with the times.  The LA branch has things 'under control' as they see fit here.  Conveniently near a Hellmouth.  How 'bout that?"  There was a hefty pause; he ran a hand through platinum locks and shuddered another breath.  "They stand for everythin' you oppose, luv.  They're jus' organized about it."

"And Giles has never mentioned any of this, why?"

"Because they're there, an' you're here."

Buffy glanced off at that, eyes growing distant with the weight of serious contemplation.  "I don't know," she murmured after a few minutes.  "I just don't know how to not do this, Spike.  And that's what scares me.  I barely remember life before I was the Slayer.  I know it happened.  I know it existed.  I just don't remember it.  Sometimes I think that was someone else entirely.  My life ended then and picked up again.  I don't remember not being the Slayer.  It's all I have that…it's who I am.  I don't know how to be anything else."

That was it.  Spike couldn't maintain his own imposed hands-off policy; he reached for her hand, delicately caressing her knuckles with his thumbs.  "You're not anythin' less than what you are.  Who you are.  Sod the Slayer—you're Buffy Summers.  The woman.  You're jus' closin' one book of your life an' gettin' ready to open the next.  We'll make the third the longest…" He leaned forward and teased her with his mouth, seeking her lips in a sweeping, sensual kiss that did nothing to guise the taste of her tears.  He loved her like this—so raw and emotional.  The side that only a privileged few got to see, much less know.  "An' the best.  'F I have to lasso the bloody moon for you, I'll see to that." A soft smile graced his face.  "I'll make you happy, Buffy."

Of everyone in her life, she supposed Spike was the only person who could render her to genuine tears with nothing more than heartfelt confessionals and promises she knew he would die protecting.  There was no pretending around him.  No driving need to be someone that she wasn't.  He accepted her for everything she offered.  And he understood all her reservations with a touch of his own.

She was so open now; she didn't think the gate could ever close.

And there was nothing to say to that.  Nothing but a hoarse, "You already do."

A shiver melted between them.  Three simple words.  Who knew they could have such a profound affect?  "Sweetheart," he replied huskily.  "We're only gettin' started."

"I know," she returned, smiling gently.

"This place doesn' deserve you," he continued.  "You're always around where the walls are bleedin'."

So much left unsaid in that alone.

"This thing with Glory," Buffy stated slowly.  "It's unavoidable, isn't it?"

"That depends, luv.  Depends on how you treat what you know."  He smiled with a shrug, running his hand up and down her arm with unnamed sensuality.  "I want to take you away.  From here, from the Hellmouth.  Give you somethin' you haven't had.  This thing with Glory 's unavoidable only 'f we let ourselves get cornered."

There was a long pause.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm gonna have a li'l chat with Rupert," Spike replied simply.  "You deserve more than this, baby.  So much more.  An' I'll cross the bloody Styx to give it you."

There was something in his eyes that she could not deny.  A feverous spark of life that had known existence before this sense of together.  Amazing.  He was so much more than she had ever imagined.  He exceeded all boundaries of prospect. Breaking the standards, shattering everything that had ever measured in the realm of expectancy.

For once, she was planning for a future she could live in.

And it felt good.

*~*~*

Even before he reached his front door, Giles knew what to expect on the inside.  No sense of forward premonition and no shock to coincide with blatant knowledge.  He simply knew.  Perhaps it was a reflex of having provided housing for a notorious vampire the previous year.  Perhaps there was something in the air, forewarning his complete lack of predestined inclination.  Perhaps it was because he knew that he had a case of Brandy that he was saving for that one particularly noteworthy occasion that never managed to show up on time, and that more than half of it would be gone before the night was over; none down his own throat.

Of course, if there were something to know, the Watcher would always be at the top of it.  Thus, without any pretense of formality, he threw open the door with a ceremonial roll of the eyes.  

"I knew there was something I was forgetting," he observed drolly, removing his overcoat and casting it to the coat rack.  "Of course, one tends to cast the disinvitation of nonthreatening vampires into a concern of the secondary nature, so I suppose it is not wholly surprising."

There was no burst of surprise. The platinum vampire tipped his glass and nodded.  He was leaning against the nearest sofa, thoroughly unbothered by the unfriendly greeting.  This was not a leisure call.  He meant business.  "Allo, Rupes," he returned with a curt nod.  "Nice to see you, too."

The salutation made Giles even more rigid, though it did not seem possible.  He robotically offered a nod of offhand abbreviation and moved inward with more of the same.  "Spike," he drew formally.  "To what do I owe the extreme displeasure?"

Ah.  So that was how it was to be.

"Simple.  I want you to do somethin' for me."

There was a long beat of silence.  Then Giles laughed.  

Hard.

"I-I'm sorry," he said a minute later, gaining composure.  "My hearing must be failing me.  I could've sworn—"

"Stop playin' dumb with me, ole man, an' get off your high horse.  When I say I want you to do somethin' for me, you're automatically to assume I mean me an' Buffy, understand?"  Spike rose to his feet slowly, capping off the rest of his drink with dark intensity.  He allowed himself a second to enjoy the astonishment on Giles's face.  After so much experience to suggest the contrary, he was not accustomed to being talked back to with such ferocity.  Not where the vampire was concerned, and certainly not in manners such as these.  Despite the tenor of their past dealings, the Watcher had always remained in control.  Always.

Not now.

"Once more," the Cockney continued, "you're gonna listen.  You're gonna listen, then you're gonna do as I say.  'S that quite understood?"

That was it.  Giles was livid.  There was a blur of unseen movement that resulted in several angry steps forward to coincide with the sharp removal of his glasses.  A blank nothingness to go with his anger.  "Why you pompous little ingrate, who the hell do you think you are?"

"I am William the Bloody," Spike replied calmly—a mechanism he hardly indulged that only seemed to aggravate the other man further.  "'m a vampire by which the likes of this town has always taken for granted.  'm the killer of two Slayers, an' the lover of one.  Furthermore, 'f I wanted, I could rip your head off without a flinch.  So you bloody well will listen."

That merited a stare of astonishment.  The vampire reveled in it.  

"The chip?"

"Long gone.  I got diffused weeks ago."

"Buffy—"

"Knows.  An' loves me all the same.  Imagine that."  Spike cocked his head with an ironical leer, moving to the counter where he had placed the bottle of Brandy.  He refilled at his leisure, perfectly aware and seemingly apathetic that every move he made was being scrutinized.  As though he expected no less.  "Firs' things firs', let's get over that.  The Slayer loves me, I love her.  Very much. We're together, we're blissfully happy, an' that's the way it is.  Case bloody closed.  That's why I'm gonna give you a second chance to be nice to me, mate.  I know how much you mean to her…sides the fact that when you're not buggin' the hell out of me, you're a bit of all right."

"Oh yes," Giles retorted.  "You speak on behalf of my Slayer.  The same you managed to—oh, what was that?  Right.  Get sired.  I'm sorry if I'm not following your word too closely there, William.  You see, your track record isn't something I'd brag about."

The platinum vampire's eyes narrowed dangerously.  "She's not your Slayer, mate.  Not anymore. For that matter, she's not Sunnydale's Slayer.  She doesn' belong to your Watcher's Council or your bleedin' cause.  Hell, she doesn' even belong with _me."_

"I'm glad we agree on that much."

"Though I like to think of her as a li'l more mine than those other things I mentioned."

"Spike—"

"But that's beside the point.  'm here because we both love her very much, an' we both want what's best."

"I have no desire to hear your version of 'what's best'."

The vampire's eyes gleamed dangerously.  "Ask me how much I care.  Here's the deal.  I want you to take Dawn, Joyce, Red, Glinda, an' Harris, an' leave."

"If you think—"

"Buffy an' I are leavin' too, with the Bit.  Soon as bloody possible.  An' we're not comin' back for a long time."

A bated breath drew between them along with a line of irrefutable understanding.  This was a bulletin.  It was not a matter that stood ground for negotiation.  It was the way it was going to be.  Case closed.

"All right," the Watcher said shortly.  "All right.  You have my attention.  Why?"

"Because 'f we don', Glory will win."  There was no doubt beneath that tone.  It was an understanding.  Somethingrecognized.  Something known as an inevitable conclusion.  Something that _would _happen.  "You know it.  You knew it last night when you gave off that spiel about our defense tactics.  The same that are buggered either way you go.  You know it 'cause of what the Council told you."

There was no denying that.  Giles finally receded his stance and glanced down in acknowledgement.  "We discovered…many things about Glory while we were in England."

"I'd imagine so.  You had a lot of time."  Spike shifted and turned to lean against the counter, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting up without waiting for permission.  And to his credit, the Watcher didn't call him on it.  "I found out some things, too.  Buffy an' I sang at this demon bar in LA.  The one I told you about."

Giles nodded absently.  "Yes.  The one with the empath demon.  And he read you?"

"Yeh.  He told Buffy to avoid doctors an' towers…whatever that means.  'E told me somethin' different.  Somethin' I haven't shared yet."  The vampire drew in a long breath, tapping the butt of his fag and watching the ashes as they sprinkled the ground.  "'S not important, I guess, an' I'm not sure who he read it off.  Might've been a combo of us both."

"What is it?"

Spike glanced up solemnly.  "She was gonna die.  Even 'f everythin' that happened hadn't happened, she was gonna die.  All final like.  Lorne…he…he told me not to blame myself for what happened.  Said it was gonna go down like that anyway.  Said even 'f…there's nothin' we could've done to prevent her dyin'."  There was a lengthy silence and he shivered, the thought uncovering emotions he wanted far and buried. Seeing her dead was one thing.  Having her like this was something else.

He had already seen her dead once, and would never allow that to happen again.

"You know 's the blood.  How Glory will activate the Key."

Giles nodded.  He had not moved beyond the first revelation.  

"How I figure it, Buffy an' Dawn match up on the DNA level, despite whatever mojo those wanker monks punched the Nibblet with.  The Slayer was gonna—"

"Be the Key."  A long breath hissed through the Watcher's lips.  "I think I need a drink."

"Right there with you."

Spike poured.  Giles drank.  Spike poured another.

"Cheers," the vampire toasted with an ironic smile, downing his own.

It took a minute for the other man to gather his bearings.  The Watcher wiped his mouth solemnly, shaking himself to his senses.  "And now?  Now with…with everything that happened…what now?"

"Now she's a vampire," the Cockney returned.  "She can't play that part.  But that doesn' stop others from steppin' up to the plate."

There was no sense in guising the inherent understanding.  The null feeling left resonating in a downward spiral of realization.  

"There's no way to stop Glory."

Giles shook his head.  "No way…"

"Which 's why you gotta take the Nibblet, Joyce, an' the others an' get the fuck outta Dodge."  Spike expelled a deep breath and poured himself another drink.  "Chances are, you risked too much in comin' back at all."

"I…we had to."

"I know.  But 's time to leave again."  

There would be no more dispute.  The Watcher nodded.  And that was that.

"Where will you take Buffy?"

 "Somewhere safe."

"Back to Los Angeles?"

Spike shrugged.  "Haven't decided.  We'll head back there initially.  Gotta to drop the Bit off."

The Watcher frowned, searching his memory.  "The girl?  Rosalie?"

"Zangy had to leave.  Cordy got sucked into an alternate dimension, so he headed back to play search an' rescue."  The vampire offered a smile that disguised his own concern.  "Duty, honor, an' all that."

"And you wouldn't consider going with us?" Giles paused immediately after speaking, his eyes wide as he realized how that sounded.  And despite their understanding, there would not be any admission of anything beyond abhorrence between them.  Not yet.  "Y-you and Buffy, of course."

"I knew what you meant."

"And?"

"No."

The Watcher frowned.  "Why not?"

Spike's eyes narrowed.  "Think about it.  'm not exactly Mr. Popularity with the Scoobies.  The last thing Buffy needs 's to be lectured on the choices she's made.  The last thing _I _need 's a bunch of reminders 'bout how unworthy I am of her.  I already know that, mate.  'm jus' lucky she doesn' care."  A sigh rolled off his shoulders.  "An' I'd like to give her somethin' she hasn't had a in a good, long while."

"And what would that be?"

He simply shrugged.  "A vacation."

"A what?"

"Time away from the Hellmouth that's not bein' used up in torture miles."  Spike smiled.  "Time to make some of the bigger decisions we got comin' up.  We'll be back…eventually.  Right now, though, 's jus' us.  She loves her mates a lot, but she has things to work out."

"And time alone…with you…will help?"

"Well, let's think about who's spendin' an eternity with who."

Giles shook his head.  "I still cannot believe you stole sunlight from her.  Regardless of…the circumstances…a girl like Buffy needs sunlight."

"A _woman_ like Buffy needs a life, Rupes, an' crazy as it may sound, that's jus' what I gave her.  In the end, 's this or the other.  You'd know what 'm talkin' about had you been there to see it, Rupes. Angelus had done the deed—Zangy did what he thought he had to do, an' now that's over, I can finally say I'm glad."  Spike finished off his drink, stamped out his cigarette, and pushed himself off the counter to head for the door.  "Anyway, 's been fun, but I gotta fly.  Stuff to do, an' what all."  He stopped at the threshold, not turning around.  There was a sense of gravity in his voice that could not be taken lightly.  "We'll be gone by tomorrow night."

He didn't wait for a response; he didn't need to.  With everything he had seen, he needed no diagram to measure Giles's sentiment.  No bother.  That was the way it was. Some means were meant to never be resolved.  As a matter of fact, it was expected.

And all things considered, that was fine by him.

**To be continued in Chapter Fifty: _Dance with the Devil_…**


	51. Dance with the Devil

**A/N: **Hey everyone. This is technically it, and in a few days, that will actually hit me. Anyway, the epilogue will follow shortly. Thanks to everyone who took the time to read, review, email me, etc. Much thanks to Megan for serving as my beta. And a very special thanks to Kimmie, without whom there would never have been a story.I've had a ball.

Oh, and I've been nominated for Best Author at the Eternal Devotion Awards. Thanks to whoever nominated me!

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**Chapter Fifty**

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**Dance with the Devil**

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Returning to Revello Drive that night reminded him of the war. It didn't really matter which one; they all seemed to mesh together after a period of consideration. While he had never found himself in authentic uniform, Spike reckoned he had come as close as any other apathetic vampire. He and Drusilla had done what they needed to in order to ensure their survival. Europe and wartime was chaotic; he had once advocated chaos. Reveled in it. But now he was coming to the only home he ever cared to know to enjoy the comfort of his liberty in the arms of the woman he loved. 

It reminded him of the war for the looks that so frequently colored the expression of homecoming soldiers. He hadn't known what to call it at the time though he knew there was something more to it than bobbled at the surface. He was coming home now from his war. A challenge more stipulating than he would ever concede. While he and Giles were hardly friends and never would be, there was some innate tug within his psyche that unconsciously sought the Watcher's approval. It was subtle enough to remain disregarded, but when he was by himself, the thought gave birth to itself in an entirely new light.

Perhaps because Giles was the closest thing to a father Buffy had, and would ever have. Perhaps in his nineteenth century logic, that bore some form of rational conclusion. Perhaps. Despite his growth, there were parts of him that remained thoroughly old fashioned. The same he refused to discuss with anyone for the namesake of reputation. And it hurt. It hurt that after everything he had done, everything he had sacrificed, the approval of the people closest to the woman he loved remained hanging in the balance. It was something he would never have and he knew it—but the world was set on the axis of aspirations. Such was how he came to this position in the first place.

He supposed it didn't matter now. With any luck, the Scoobies would be gone by week's end. By next nightfall, he, Buffy, and Rosie would be gone as well. He hadn't given any thought as to possible destination; there was so much to see out there. Places he had been and places he wanted to revisit. Places marked with bits of significance that tickled his poetic fancy—the same he kept carefully guarded with well-feigned apathy. He wondered what it would be like to travel with a woman whose mind was not only in one piece, but sharp and willing to expand. Drusilla had never been able to appreciate the classics. He would show her the Eiffel Tower and she would dance under streetlights. He would marvel at the Pyramid of Giza and she would play in the sand. Infinitely discouraging.

Being enraptured with Drusilla now seemed like a terrible folly. He supposed that while in a relationship, one could never guess how long it would take before the spinning resulted in a crash. While there was a part of him that would always belong to his maker, he could now concede to himself that had his sire been just another vampire that he encountered by chance, he likely would have staked her for her erratic behavior. She had been bold and mysterious once; he wasn't certain when that thought fell to the wayside, though all evidence suggested that the Slayer had something to do with it. Spike was not a patient man, and caring for Drusilla had required a mass amount of patience. She hadn't possessed the skills to care for herself, much less anything else. She hadn't been able to carry on lengthy conversations, and very rarely did she speak in something other than pentameters and riddles. Buried under the scrapings of her distorted mind likely resided a high intellect. But that girl was gone, and he did not bewail her.

Buffy had a strong mind and a quick mouth. She wanted genuine good, which should have turned him aside without forward suggestion. And yet, she intrigued him. In all his years, he had never met anyone who thought so little for themselves when it came to issues that really mattered. He had watched her blossom from child to woman. He watched her suffer through unimaginable heartache and loss, and he had fallen in love with who she became for no reason other than that was who she was. Not for the image or the power. Her goodness enchanted him. Even now with eternity at her feet and every reason to walk away, not to mention the desire to explore the world she had forfeited so much to save, she thought of the consequences first. The consequences for leaving a position that had taken so much without thinking of issuing a return. He would have given up years ago. She was still going.

She likely would continue to save the world until she was dust. Spike could only pray that he was wrong, and that she would not end up destroying herself in the process. Not for something so insolvent. Not for something that would never know what it had. 

He knew what he had, and he surmised it would awe him for the rest of his days. 

Simply being in the foyer of her home and knowing that he was welcome overwhelmed him in manner of the greatest homecoming he had ever known. Through everything: for the blood he had lost, the blood he had spilt, the tears he had shed, and those that awaited him for tomorrow, the full of his journey and its conclusion would remain with him as the most wondrous revelation of his existence. He trailed the stairs with careful, measured steps. He turned corners that led him through the intimate setting of the home he would have conquered civilizations to protect. Dawn and Rosie were sleeping and Joyce had retired much earlier in the evening. And Buffy was in her room.

They had shared that room the night before, but something about this moment seemed to make it final. The end. 

Perhaps now that their trials were coming to a close. Perhaps now that they had this lapse before the new ones settled and started listing their offense. An ironic smile touched his lips, but he shrugged the thought off just the same. Let that wait for another day. 

For long minutes, he stood in the doorway of Buffy's room and watched her. She was sleeping soundly on the bed where he had left her—insisting that rest was something she had to take in spades, considering that they would be on the move the next day. She was curled on her side, her hand resting in his place as though lamenting his absence. The blankets were pulled to her hip; barely guarding the tank she had opted to employ as nightwear. The sensual curves of her filled the covers nicely and made his mind dance with knowledge of what awaited him. And yet, he did not want to wake her.

For generations, he supposed he would be content to merely watch.

Just weeks ago, he had arrived at his crypt and found Darla waiting for him. There, she had made him the offer of a lifetime—or several. She had given him the opportunity to return to the only existence that had welcomed him. To come back to things the way they used to be. Just weeks ago, Buffy had bristled at his attempts to console her when she now sought his comforting touch. Just weeks ago, his world had shattered. Just weeks ago, he had left Sunnydale, unknowing what awaited him. Unknowing that the closest allies he would ever know would be found in the center of a hotel that was leased to the one man in the world he could attest to loathing more than Riley Finn. Unknowing that a demon hunter stalked the city in retribution of a horrible crime in the namesake of his family legacy. Unknowing that he was a key figure, and the Powers saw him as possessing enough influence to require a link at the ready at all times.

He had gone with one thought: to get Buffy back. He hadn't known how. He hadn't known if he would have any assistance. He had never entertained the delusion of making friends on the way, and he certainly never thought to be received by the Slayer with warmth and affection. Not even his wildest fantasies had pictured her returning his love.

And now he was here, in her bedroom, because he was welcome. He kept waiting to wake up, and it never happened.

Sooner or later, it would hit home that this was real. It was all so real.

Spike drew in a deep breath and moved inward slowly, approaching her with a note of poignant regard. She was what made his capitulation complete. And she was with him because she wanted to be. This being of pure light.

He knelt at her bedside and caressed her face lightly with his knuckles, catching wisps of hair with the soft of her skin. The locks that fell against his fingers fanned him with gentle reassurance. The fullness of her scent took him to the ocean and back. It was still so hard to believe that she was here—right here—literally under his fingertips.

And because she wanted to be.

He didn't mean to awake her—he really didn't. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb her slumber, especially after the restless night she had formerly suffered through. But her eyes opened without pretense. Without fatigued struggle. And suddenly, he was drawn into a spiral of nonresistance. Her eyes captivated him. 

There wasn't much of her that didn't.

A smile crossed her face at the sight of him. An expression of everlasting gentility. It still took him by surprise; he never thought she would ever have reason to look at him like that. "Hey," she said softly.

"Hey," he repeated, voice derisorily hoarse.

She stretched herself awake, her body waved under his hands with longing welcome. "How long have you been home?"

"Jus' a few minutes."

"Straight from Giles's?"

Spike nodded, distracting himself with the strap of her tank. He fiddled with it for idle seconds before pushing it aside to favor the skin it concealed with a kiss. She arced beneath him at the affect. "We had a nice chat," he replied. "'E's agreed to take the Nibblet an' skip town."

The relief coloring her face was something he had never before envisioned. As though Giles would not do his best to protect her sister. "He did?"

"Yeh. Hopefully, he an' your mates will be gone by the end of the week."

"Do you know where they're going?"

He shook his head. "I don' even know where _we're _goin' yet, luv. I'd assume back to England, but with Rupert, you never know."

A frown befell her face, and she reached to tuck locks of fallen hair behind her ear. "You don't know where we're going? I just assumed back to Los Angeles."

"'S that what you want?"

"I thought it was what _you _wanted." Her frowned deepened. "It is…isn't it?"

"That doesn' matter, sweetheart. 'Sides, Peaches will be there. All ready an' souled up." He exhaled deeply and shook his head, hand idly perusing its enjoyment in caressing her skin. "I don' rightly care where we go. We'll need to drop by LA at some point, 'course…while I love the Bit, I really don' fancy her taggin' along everywhere we go."

"Why William! Why ever not?"

His eyes narrowed, and leaned inward to tease her lips with a kiss. "'Cause I don' like censoring my…everythin'."

"You're dirty."

"Yep. You better clean me up."

Buffy shook her head, a mischievous glimmer buried in her gaze. "Nah. I like you dirty. Makes it all the more fun for me."

"Well, cleanin' me up might be fun, too. An' we could always get dirty again."

A giggle touched her lips. "See? This is why I love you. You're amazingly inventive."

Her casual jollity was inebriating, not to mention contagious. Spike felt a silly grin spread across his mouth the next instant. He leaned in to kiss her again, stroking her forehead with sensual affection. "'S that the only reason?"

"Nope. You've also got a really great ass."

Spike barked a laugh at that. "You li'l minx."

"I try."

"You're amazingly successful."

"Why, thank you."

"Don' mention it." He claimed her mouth once more, but this time, the brief touch wasn't enough. Within seconds, they were warring each other with intense ferocity. As though the ripples he had experienced earlier could manifest and she could taste the flavor of revelation. From where the sudden sense of desperate urgency manifested, he did not know. Someplace explicably between the iron and the silver. Gazing at her now drew the realization that he had never known such clemency. Not for everything he wanted and received in turn. Crossing oceans, besieging worlds, satisfying an endless thirst had never known such stark gratification.

Her taste intoxicated him, drawing him in with infallible authority. With every sweep his tongue indulged, her flavor enhanced and he lost a little more of himself. In seconds, he had shed himself of duster and was battling her hands to the hem of his shirt. The fabric found the ground next to her discarded footwear and some book that looked as though it might be important pending on the light of its regard. It, likewise, was covered with Buffy's tank without preliminaries.

His hands trembled as they skimmed the length of her arms, finding the softness of her cheeks and rubbing tender, loving caresses into her skin. "Buffy…" he murmured reverently against her lips. "I…"

"Shhh…" she whispered in turn, drawing his mouth back to hers. They warred each other without seeking a victor, claiming the fullness of what was in front of them, leaving nothing behind for stragglers. She was a creature of his own making—she saw what she wanted and took it without second-guessing herself. So different from the woman that had left this place. So different and the same. Buffy as he always knew she could be. The richness of her love flavored her with so much more than he ever thought capable. 

And it was only the beginning. Frightening and exciting in the same notion. 

Everything.

"You're so beautiful," he hummed before his lips descended, exploring the length of her throat. His hands slid down her skin to cup the fullness of her breasts, his thumbs enjoying slow, arousing play with her nipples before his mouth dipped to take over. He felt her grasping at his head and reveled in every raspy breath that escaped her with escalating desperation. The full, womanly scent she emanated had every mark of driving him insane. He wanted to touch and taste every part of her all at once.

A velvety sigh filled the air, and Buffy threw her head back. "Oh God."

"Mhmm." Spike laved her with his tongue, hands falling to her hips, drawing the blankets away. There was nothing more to remove; she was bare to him, and that realization made him harden to the point of pain. She could do that so effortlessly. Just by looking at him, she had the power stimulate him beyond limits that he thought possible. "No frilly panties? Oooh, you are a naughty girl."

"Spike…"

"You're exquisite." He dotted worshipful kisses along her breastbone. "You're an exquisite naughty girl."

"Oh God."

His hand slipped between her thighs, teasing her wetness. "An' you're mine."

"Spike!"

The vampire grinned against her, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth. "Somethin' you want, sweetheart?" He was playing with her now, drawing mischievous circles against her entrance, giving her just enough to make her beg for more. There was something about her like this that made him become everything he was made for, and it had nothing to do with pride or the gloating knowledge that he could render the strongest person he knew into a gasping woman who craved his touch. It was everything about the other. That she was strong enough to make it to this point. Strong enough to know that conceding that control had nothing to do with herself and everything to do with _them._

"I need…" she gasped. "I need you to touch me."

"I am touchin' you."

Buffy mewled in complaint and whacked his shoulder. "You know what I mean!"

"Oi! Watch my frail man bones, luv. After all, 'm only a vampire."

"Then stop teasing me!"

Spike grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "But 's so much fun," he whispered seductively, circling her womb once more before edging a finger inward. "'S that what you wanted, baby?"

Buffy nodded hurriedly, her eyes falling closed. "Yes," she sighed. His thumb found her clit and stroked her to his leisure, and her body fell to currents. "Oh yes."

"Jus' let me take care of you." He swept his lips across her temple, exploring her with delicate ease. Stretching her to accommodate him. One finger, then two, gaining momentum. Her gasp of relief soon followed another that silently demanded more. And he gave. He played her with hard tenderness until she clutched at his forearms and gave way to her pleasure, sinking blunt teeth into his shoulder to muffle her cry of release. The feel of her made him harden even further, but he wouldn't move for the world. Not with her trembling his arms, grasping him as she did. Instead, he ran his hands through her blonde locks and brushed a loving kiss across her forehead, holding her to him as the last of her spasms receded, and she slowly returned to herself.

"I love your hands," she whispered, pressing her lips at the nape of his neck, running her own down his arms.

Spike smiled kindly. "They love you, too," he replied. "As you would say."

"I've started up a collection," she said, pulling away just a fraction to descend his chest, dropping kisses along the way. She stopped to tug at one of his nipples with her teeth, eliciting a sharp, excited gasp. 

"H-have you?"

"Mhmmm. Parts of you that I love." She paused at the buckle of his belt and grinned upwards impishly. "Your ass and your hands have made the list, and I'm accepting applications." As if to emphasize such a point, she swept her hand against his inner thigh, earning another sharp gasp. "Any suggestions?"

"Move up jus' a li'l, an' you'll find out."

Buffy arched a brow and made short work of his belt and brushed a quick kiss against the denim.

"Jesus!" 

"Wrong name, but I appreciate the sentiment."

A growl tore at his throat and he seized her shoulders, pushing her back so he could climb to his feet. "To hell with this."

The Slayer's giddy countenance faded at that, and her brow deepened with worry lines. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I gotta get out of these pants before I embarrass myself." His eyes swept over her hungrily. "It hasn' happened yet, but I don' wanna take any chances. You drive me wild."

She blinked. Then she giggled. "Oh."

The next few seconds were composed of a hasty attempt to rid himself of his remaining clothing. His trousers wound up on the other side of the room, and there was every possibility that one of his boots soared out the window. No sooner had he tackled her back to the bed, settling between her thighs and wrestling hot, desperate kisses from her mouth as his hands took path to explore every inch of her. He pressed himself needily against her thigh and released a long whimper when she reached between them to take him into her hand. She grasped him with such shyness laced with courage she didn't know she possessed. Their time together had revealed that while she wanted to do everything she could to please him; there was much about physical intimacy that made her nervous. She had overstepped her own boundaries, surprising both him as well as herself with her brazen want of something more.

It didn't matter what she gave. It would always be enough.

Her fingers brushed against the head of his need with learned poise, and he rumbled into her throat. "Do that again," he murmured. "An' you'll have a mess on your hands."

"A tasty mess."

"Oh God, you're gonna be the death of me."

"Too late." She kissed him again, stroked him once more with loving, if not teasing intent, and positioned him at her opening. "Now, Spike. I need you now."

He smiled and brushed strands of hair from her face, his other hand running down the length of her to test her readiness for himself. His explorations were slow and gentle, and when her whimpers reached summit, he retracted his touch to sample her rich dew with intent. When he began suckling at his fingers teasingly, winking at her duress, Buffy reached between them to grasp cock with brazen force that quickly wiped his arrogant smirk from his face. 

"We can…both…play dirty," she warned, panting needlessly.

"Yeh." Spike pinned her hands to the mattress beside her head, lacing their fingers as he eased himself into her. Duel moans mingled in the air, and for a long beat, they remained as such. Linked and complacent with simple joining. The full impact of being one was almost more satisfactory than the promise of imminent completion. The platinum vampire reckoned he could remain happily like this for the rest of eternity.

His hands clutched tighter at hers, and he nudged himself all the way home. Buffy's eyes fell shut, a pleasurably painful flash overwhelming her senses as her teeth worried her lip. In the catalog of beloved expressions she made, this one found its place among his top ten. 

"Is it always gonna feel like this?" she asked softly, voice wondrous.

His heart flooded with warmth and his head dipped to nuzzle her throat as his hips started to move in deep, sensuous strokes. There was truth there, of course, but something else lingered in the balance. Every experience he had shared with her thus far had been blissful for its combination of difference and similarity. 

"I dunno," he murmured, gliding his hands up her arms once more to caress her breasts. "What do you feel?"

"Everything." Buffy gasped and arched off the bed, linking her hands behind his throat. "You."

He licked and nipped at her skin, indulging deep thrusts that touched peaks that he never though to explore. His movements were sharp and intent, escalating with need and want, coiled into one blissful package. She scaled him over and over, matching him for everything he gave. Matching, taking, and giving some more. Every undulation that cascaded his skin was for her; every nerve that tingled bore her marking. To watch her writhe and whimper and move beneath him was one of the singular most revolutionary sights of his life, though he knew that the past week had contained many of those.

The threshold had relocated altogether. With them, it always did.

And always would.

A stifled sob reverberated from her lips. "Spike…" she whimpered as his thrusts grew even deeper than she thought possible. She was still meeting him for everything he gave, her own retaliation rhythmic and torturous. He didn't believe she realized the full of her influence over him. He wondered if she ever would. "Oh God…"

"I know, baby."

"I love you."

"Love you." He slid a hand across her abdomen again, seeking out her bundle of womanly nerves and feathered a ridiculously chaste kiss against her forehead. The air filled with her joyous gasp when his prying fingers began to stroke, battling his hips that swirled with every plunge, ringing cries of pleasure from her throat. "So much."

"Always?"

He nodded desperately, groaning when her Slayer muscles contracted. God, she could play dirty. He loved it. 

"Good."

That was it. Without warning, her fangs extended and found his throat. And that was it. Where he usually exhibited such restrain, Spike cried out and came. He clamped a hand around hers, hips thrusting in a frenzy as he emptied himself into her. Under his still exploring fingers, he felt her follow him over the edge. And as her body shuddered around his, a whispered hush befell her sweet countenance, and he heard it. One word. One word that would seal them together for all time.

"Mine."

Spike's eyes widened and he grasped her shoulders, ignoring the somersaults his stomach performed on a whim and the instinctual constricting of his heart. There was no way she could know what that would do. While such a step was craved and ultimate, he didn't want her to commit herself to do this without realizing its significance. Without realizing what it would mean. Because afterward, there would be no going back.

"Buffy—"

He felt her hands settle against his face, and the next thing he knew, he was gazing into eyes of full realization. And he understood. Just like that, he understood.

She knew. She knew what she was doing, what she was giving him. And it was right. She wasn't doing it for any reason beyond themselves. She did it because she wanted it, too.

It was a good thing he was already dead; he figured that moment would have clinched with a heart attack otherwise.

"Yours," he gasped finally, enjoying the warm glow of her eyes. "Always yours."

A ripple ran through him, and he had never known an instant of greater joy. 

That was, of course, until the next instant when she tugged his head to her own throat and nodded against his mouth. And even then, he hesitated once more. Waited until her hold on him constricted before allowing his own bumpies to emerge with bloodlust that exceeded all other. His ivory fangs impaled the alabaster at her throat, and he drank full the richness of her essence before whispering his claim. His hold that would keep her forever. What made them now and forever. 

He felt her shudder again, and her acceptance of him was the richest moment of his existence. Her concession to him. There. More than lovers. More than sire and childe. More than vampire and Slayer.

So much more. 

They were bound now. Bound in something intangible but just as real as anything else. 

It had taken him so long to get here. Completing a journey paid for in blood. But with her hand in his, there was nothing he couldn't conquer. Nothing to lie by the hard shoulder of wayward success. She made him see the world for all its beauty whereas before he could only see destruction, and that meant everything.

It was now. The next journey began now. 

It was time.

****

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**To be concluded in the Epilogue: _All Roads_…**


	52. All Roads

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**Epilogue******

**All Roads**

_Three weeks later_

The Desoto pulled up to the Hyperion sometime around midnight, effectively silencing the longevity of Rosie's demanding, "Are we there yet's." The first had occurred about an hour before in jest; a high point Spike failed to make until Buffy brought it to his attention. By that time, though, it was too late. His flare of impatience had inspired the child to continue in the same manner, thus stepping out of the car was the first breath of needed fresh air that they had thought to claim.

They weren't even granted ample opportunity to indulge the night air before Cordelia trailed out ecstatically. After hugging Spike to the point of suffocation—were such possible—she led them inside, aww'ed as Zack and Rosie enjoyed their reunion promptly before she was sent begrudgingly to bed. 

Then it was story time. Cordelia plunged right into her adventures in Pylea. How she had gone from slave to royalty, been courted by something called the Groosalugg—a famed creature who turned out to be a hunka man of burnin' love to light her fire. And when pressed, she flatly denied the ridiculous accusation of having ever been tempted. 

Spike laughed and eyed Wright, who fidgeted uncomfortably. "Right."

"Well," the Seer returned with a shrug. "He was cute, but Zack threatened to rip his head off and feed it to Angel."

"Man," Gunn commented from where he was reclined against the check-in counter, shaking his head. "You vamps are ugly as sin when you're all bumpy in Pylea. I thought seein' Angel in sunlight was wiggy enough."

"Did the lawyer end up goin'?" the platinum vampire asked.

"Nah. He's been whoring all his credentials to a bunch of law firms that are hungry for former Wolfram and Harters, especially since it's so unheard of," Cordelia replied, shrugging. "Last I heard, he got a helluva deal and a—like—thousand digit income. I think Kate was helping him move into his new place this weekend."

Buffy frowned. "Whoa. Slow down. Rewind. That's nice and all, but…what's this about sunlight?"

The Seer's eyes widened. "Oh, right. Apparently, some of the rules in Pylea were breakable."

"But trust me," Wright intervened, holding up a hand. "That was the only bonus. The place was irreversibly fucked up."

Gunn nodded. "Yeah. Imagine it. They made _Cordy _supreme ruler."

Wesley stifled a snicker. 

"Then," the Seer continued after sending her colleagues death glares, "there was this thing where they were trying to storm a castle so Angel challenged Gru, because he was the king warrior or whatever."

"Excuse me." Zack arched a brow. _"Who _challenged Gru?"

"Angel did. Then you challenged Angel's challenge because you've got a white armor complex, and you two ended up beating the crap out of each other."

Spike sent a beaming smile to the demon hunter. "That's m'boy."

"Shut up."

"Speakin' of the poof, did 'e scamper away or—"

Cordelia arched an eyebrow. "Yeah. Zack and Angel can barely be in the same room together. Add you to the mix and…well, let's just say I don't exactly want World War III to be here. We have enough to deal with."

Spike nodded his thanks; Buffy wasn't nearly as tacit.

"Where is he?"

"Caritas," Wesley replied. "Nikki insisted on going with him."

Gunn shrugged. "Told you the girl was gonna fall head over."

"I think it was more an excuse to stake him while we're not looking," Wright provided.

"An' I'm even beginnin' to like Nikki."

Cordelia waved a hand dismissively. "More likely, it was an excuse to get out of the hotel. Ever since we got back, she and Wes have been splitting 'Fred duty'."

Spike and Buffy exchanged confused glances.

"Fred…?"

"Oh, didn't we tell you?" The two vampires shook their heads in synchronic wonder. "Fred's the girl from my vision. Well, _Winifred,_ I should say. The one that was sucked into Pylea. We found her and brought her back with." The Seer's voice lowered conspiratorially. "She's kinda loopy."

"She has a bizarre affinity for tacos," Wesley added. "But she's fascinating. Her mind is…once she pieces everything together, I daresay she will—"

"Word of advice," Gunn intervened, rolling his eyes. "Don't get him started."

"He has a bit of a crush," Wright added with a cheeky grin.

The former Watcher frowned as though affronted, but all the offense in the world could not hide the boyish blush that arose to his cheeks. "I most certainly do not. My interest in her is purely…scientific."

"Yeah." Gunn snickered. "His next scientific 'experiment' will likely involve modeling in a string bikini, just to see if she remembers how they fit."

Spike chuckled and shrugged. "Well, 'f it works, it works."

"Do we get to meet her?" Buffy asked, turning her eyes to the upper level as though she would appear on suggestion alone. "I mean, she sounds…ummm…interesting, and…do we get to meet her?"

The group exchanged a series of skeptical looks.

"Fred doesn't come out of her room unless she wants more tacos," Gunn said. "It's dark and cave-like. She feels safe there."

"Besides, people she doesn't know might wig her out," Cordelia observed. "Maybe some other time."

"Yeh. We'll drop in." Spike smirked richly. "I gotta make sure Zangy treats you right an' everythin'."

Wright snickered. "So, you two are off, then?"

The peroxide vampire smiled and turned his attention back to Buffy, eyes warming at the very notion. "Yeh. You know…places to go, people to avoid. Rooms to…break in."

"Loudly," Gunn added. "I definitely remember the loudly."

Buffy flushed and whacked Spike across the shoulder. He merely grinned.

"Any idea on where you two might stop first?" Wesley asked.

"'m tryin' to talk her into Vegas. She doesn' seem to be goin' for it."

"Good girl," Wright agreed, wide-eyed. "Stay away from Vegas. They have some freaky-ass demons there. Go somewhere nice and boring."

"Canada?" Cordelia volunteered.

The hunter stared at her. "Yeah. If they wanna be up to their ass in soul-snatching uglies, fine."

Spike raised a hand. "Don' have a soul."

"Well, I do," Buffy returned. "And I'd kinda like to keep it."

"Then don't go to Canada."

She shrugged. "Our game plan right now is to drive around and do whatever suits us."

"Which means they'll get as far as the backseat," Gunn said with a grin.

"Charlie! My lady an' I can hear you, y'know." Spike paused thoughtfully. "'Sides. That's bloody dangerous, what with the sun an' all. Even in my car. We'd at leas' need to make it to a broom closet."

Wright shook his head. "I shudder to think of what all you told my daughter."

Buffy waved a flippant hand. "Nothing ten to fifteen years of extensive therapy can't fix," she assured him.

"Ummm, if I may," Wesley volunteered. "With all the child has seen, if she hasn't needed therapy yet…"

"Point taken."

There was a long, meaningful pause, and without forward indication, it was time for goodbyes all over again. Spike expelled a deep breath, determined not to make a big deal out of it. After all, goodbye was only goodbye for a little while. He and Buffy would return. Now they had nothing holding them back. No obligations to tend to on a whim. It was a fantastic revelation.

As though sensing his digression, Cordelia moved to give him another hug, pouring the full of everything into her embrace. "Well," she said slowly. "Don't be a stranger."

"Don' worry, pet," he replied. "The lot of you aren't anywhere near rid of me."

"Lucky us," Gunn drawled. When he earned a narrowed glance in turn, he shrugged. "You know you'll be missed, Bro. I just don't do hugs."

"Understood."

Wesley stepped forward to shake their hands in turn. "Best of luck," he told them earnestly. "You know you two always have a room here."

"Don't worry," Buffy replied. "We'll undoubtedly be taking you up on that."

"Excellent."

There was another awkward pause. Spike met Wright's eyes and offered a weak smile. With that, there was too much to say. He owed the other man more than he cared to admit, and he never left a debt unpaid. It was something that could not be expressed with any measure of success in words. Thus, he refused to try.

It grew too tense, and the silence screamed a need to be broken. The demon hunter seized initiative, finally stepping forward with intent and reached into his pocket. "Here. I need to give you something."

Something pressed against Spike's palm. He glanced down curiously. 

"What's this?"

"It's a cell phone."

The platinum vampire rolled his eyes. "I can bloody well see that."

"Then why did you ask me?"

"I meant, 'What's this an' what's it doin' in my hand,' but I thought you'd be smart enough for the Cliff's Notes version. I was wrong."

The group snickered. Buffy whacked his arm again. And life was good.

Wright merely shook his head. "Just use it, all right? Call…and stuff." There was an awkward pause as the implications of the gesture sank in. He hurried to eradicate it. "Besides…" A wicked grin spread his lips. "We set up the account so that Angel will receive the bill. So don't hesitate for something long distance."

Spike's eyes twinkled at that, and he smirked in turn. "Outstandin'." With a nod of gratitude, he pocketed the phone, then reached out to shake his friend's hand. "Zangy…" He drew in a deep breath, considering his words. "Take care of the Bit an' don't die. Oh, an' 'f you hurt Cordy, I'll rip your throat out."

Wright nodded, expecting nothing less, and a dry smile painted across his face. "Don't die, and if you hurt Buffy, you won't be around to regret it." 

They nodded their understanding. And that was that. 

Spike didn't speak again until they were situated comfortably in the Desoto, adjusting seatbelts. His silence was indicative of his reservation; the same he would never confess aloud, even and especially to her. The last thing Buffy needed was a guilt trip. This was the way it was, and he was happy with it. He was happy as long as she was there beside him, and that was something that would always be. "So, luv," he drawled. "You got anywhere in particular you wanna head? I hear Paris's lovely this time of year."

"Isn't Paris lovely all times of the year?"

He shrugged. "'m sure there's an off-season in there somewhere."

Buffy frowned, nibbling on her lip in thought. "I'm not really in a Paris mood," she decided after a minute.

He smiled. Trust her to not be in a Paris mood when she couldn't even pinpoint exactly what a Paris mood consisted of. However, he would not argue. They had time for everything.

"Fair enough. Italy's lovely, too. 'm particularly fond of Rome, though I've heard 's gotten even filthier than it was the last time I was there." He tilted his head in consideration. "Florence 's great, too. Or we could skip the Europe thing altogether an'—"

"Actually, Spike…I kinda have something to tell you."

The platinum vampire immediately went rigid. There was something dangerous in her tone.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Ummm…I kinda already made reservations somewhere." She flashed a weak smile and shrugged. "Sorry I didn't mention it before."

Relief rolled off his shoulders. She had the way of making the simplest of revelations sound like the forthcoming of the next apocalypse. And while that was something he had and always would admire about her, it had the ability to scare the full of his unlife right out of his body at times. "Oh. 'S that all?" 

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be?"

She shrugged. "'Cause I didn't tell you."

Spike arched a brow. "You're tellin' me now, aren't you? That's good enough for me."

"Okay."

"So…where we headed?"

The Slayer bit her lip again and glanced down. "I got reservations at this hotel. Really big, historic, plenty of vacancies and the rooms looked fantastic the last time I was there." She glanced up slowly, waiting until realization flooded his eyes, enjoying the flecks of light that danced within the blue. "You see, the only problem is, it isn't an active hotel. It's sort've run by these—"

"Buffy…" He reached for her hand. "Are you…we din't have to—"

"No, Spike. We really did." She smiled, and that sealed it. The world in one smile. "Now…go. Pop the trunk and get our stuff. The manager told me that if we hurried, he'd give us a grand tour." He was still staring at her in wonder. "And the best part is, I have a guarantee from the other manager's girlfriend that we'll be the only sunlight-deprived residents."

"No Peaches?"

"He owes us one, don't you think?"

There was another long, disbelieving beat.

Then a smile as wide as any she had ever seen spread across his lips. Spike reached across the seat and kissed her with more than love. He kissed her with everything that he was. 

"Thank you," he murmured when they pulled apart.

"No," she replied softly, caressing his cheek with her palm. "Thank _you. _For everything." His expression grew tender and poignant. And it was worth it. Everything was so worth it. "Now…get out. Go see your friends. This is your vacation."

"'S our vacation, luv. An' those are _our_ friends."

She smiled a watery smile. "Yes, they are."

Spike grinned and kissed her again, whispering a heartfelt, "I love you," before bounding out of the car.

This was it. This was right. This was everything. And it was only the beginning.

Buffy smiled to herself and followed. How long they would stay, she did not know. For everything she owed, for the same she knew he would never ask for, no amount of time would ever be enough. But this was the way it should be. If not forever, for now would work. 

She was here with the man she loved, and he was happy. He was happy. That meant the world to her. 

And for that, she realized, so was she. Buffy Summers was happy. The concept finally grasped her, cornered her, made her realize exactly what she had. Watching his happiness ensued her own. Today was only the first step of many. They had an eternity to explore. 

So this was love. 

"Buffy?" Spike was at the doorway of the Hyperion, watching her with a concerned frown. "Sweetheart, are you all right?"

She was more than all right. 

"Yeah." She shrugged nonchalantly. "I just love you, is all."

He warmed her with his smile. "Love you, too." 

"Why haven't you gone in?"

"Waitin' for you."

There was so much he could do to her with words. It made her ache to think of how she could have ever missed this. How close she had come to it. How much he had been made to sacrifice just for this.

His eyes told her without a word that he would gladly do it all over again.

And the really amazing thing was, so would she. 

Spike waited at the door for her, eyes glowing the luminosity that didn't know a name. He birthed so many new feelings into the world without waiting for the old ones to catch up. 

"You ready?" he asked, brushing a tender kiss across her forehead.

Buffy smiled. "Yes."

He nodded, and his fingers lacing through hers, palm-to-palm in holy palmer's kiss. "Then, let's go."

And that was it. The end of one and the beginning of a new. Hand in hand, they crossed the threshold.

Together. 

**FIN**

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**A/N (conclusive)**: I really have nothing to say other than this has been an absolute ball from the beginning, and I'm already missing not-working on the story. It was one of the most trying to let go…I don't think I realized that it was going to actually end until it did. Again, I'd like to extend my thanks to everyone who took the time to read/review/email me/etc. You guys are the best. 

And yes, overkill, but hey…again, I must bow my head in gratitude to Megan and Kimmie for all their help.

As far as a sequel…I have no plans for one. For now, I'm satisfied where this one has ended. If there ever is anymore, it'll likely be more in dealing Zack and the Fang Gang—likely in Pylea—simply because I grew very close to him and will miss him very much, as well as his close kinship with our favorite platinum vampire. (Kimmie still wants me to do the Zack Wright Chronicles; that's something that will have to be given some thought. I never say never…well, almost never.) For now, though, I'm happy to leave them as they are: close and with frequent visits from Spike and Buffy.

My sincere thanks again to everyone. 

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